


Krypton

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Periodic Tales [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Chemistry, Don't copy to another site, Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-01-23 02:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21312922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: KryptonFrom the Greek κρυπτός kryptos, meaning "the hidden one", Krypton is a colourless, tasteless, odourless gas, inert for most practical purposes. Noble gases are typically highly unreactive except when under particular extreme conditions. The inertness of noble gases makes them very suitable in applications where reactions are not wanted.The Holmes brothers are feeling the pressure, their hidden vulnerabilities are being tested.
Series: Periodic Tales [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/504749
Comments: 39
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you who read my material first on Fanfiction.net may remember this story. I have not posted it here on Ao3 until now, because I am trying to be more chronological in my posting of stories. This fits into the time running up to the wedding, as covered in my Magpie Two For Joy story. So it makes sense for me to post it now, given that Magpie Three will be starting soon...

The government car picked up Mycroft at the west end of Downing Street. He always used the less conspicuous entrance—too many press photographers hanging about the front door of Number 10 these days. Proceeding up Horse Guards Road to the Mall, the car would take approximately nine minutes to deposit him at the Diogenes Club, Trafalgar Square traffic permitting. The light rain falling on this early April day might keep the tourists away, and shorten the journey.

He settled back into the leather seat and closed his eyes, the better to concentrate on the problem raised by the Prime Minister and the Minister for Sport, Culture and Media- did he think it was safe for the British Olympic Team to go to the Winter games in Sochi, Russia? Sochi was only two miles from the border with Abkhazia, whose territorial dispute with Georgia made life in the region somewhat perilous. With only ten months to go, Georgian intelligence was beginning to identify a series of terrorist threats who would be trying to use the international focus on the region to stage a rather spectacular attack. Given his contacts, they wanted a definitive yes or no from him.

Mycroft knew something was wrong when a shift in his weight on the seat told him that the car had just turned left instead of right. He opened his eyes as the car accelerated up the Mall, heading west instead of its usual route east, and faster than the thirty mile an hour speed limit. He leaned forward to ask his driver what was going on, just as the agent in the front passenger seat turned to face him and started talking.

"Sir, we have a code red at Diogenes. A suspect package has been found on your desk. I've been instructed to re-route to Thames House."

The blue lights hidden behind the front grill of the Jaguar were switched on, and the driver went around the Victoria Memorial in front of Buckingham Palace at speed, the siren scattering both cars and pedestrians out of its way. Tearing down Buckingham Gate, the car then swerved around the first roundabout onto Great Peter Street, and then seconds later, went through the second roundabout onto the top of Horseferry Road, just as Mycroft connected to Anthea.

"Status?" The clipped, single word communicated neither his surprise nor concern. He might have been asking about the weather.

"The site has been evacuated, sir. The bomb squad is investigating."

"And where are you, my dear?"

"With the bomb squad. I was the one who found it, sitting on your desk."

He took a breath, thinking through the consequences. "Why Thames House, why not Smith Square?"

"The squad want to do a sweep there, too, before we can be sure it's safe for you, sir."

Yes, that was logical. If security at the Diogenes had been compromised, then the S&ILS office would be equally vulnerable. Then curiosity took over. "Describe the package."

Ketavan's voice betrayed no anxiety; she was well-trained. "Unstamped, unfranked, brown manila envelope- our stationary supply, I am almost certain."

"Is it wise to make assumptions?" He tried to make that non-judgmental, not wanting to question her assessment of the situation. But he had to know the answer.

"It _had_ to be an inside job, sir. There is just no other way entry could have been accomplished."

"Tell me more about the envelope. How was it addressed?" He closed his eyes in a silent prayer.

"_Lord Mycroft Holmes, Viscount Sherrinford_, in handwriting. Once I get a chance to get back in there, I will send you a photograph of the writing; I'm sorry, sir, that I didn't think of taking one before the bomb squad arrived."

He let out a breath, as a possible perpetrator came to mind. "Shape of the contents? Please tell me that you did not pick it up."

"No sir, of course not. The clear desk policy is absolute. There is no way you would have left something out, and I didn't put it there, so…."

"…so, someone has figured out how to get past the retinal scan monitor that is set for only yours and my eyes."

"Indeed."

_Damn._

Then he was thrown off balance physically by the car taking a sharp ninety-degree left turn as Horseferry bent almost due east. Grabbing the handle above the window to right himself, he carried on the conversation with no sign of being anything but calm. "I'm still here; continue."

"Whatever is inside is in a box—about twenty-five centimetres long, maybe half that wide, and about five centimetres deep. The outlines of that shape show through—it's not a padded envelope. It's already been cleared as not radioactive. It's being scanned for explosives, and then it will be tested for biological agents."

Mycroft was relieved it wasn't plutonium; the decontamination procedures would put the Diogenes off limits for ages. He thought about the likely contents. Anthrax was so old fashioned and ineffective as to be laughable, but there were other toxins lethal to touch. Quite a nasty little bomb could also be rigged in that space, depending on the explosive used. But if it was poison or a bomb, then he would cross off one name off the list—far too crude. If it had been planted by the person he thought of as the prime suspect, then it would not be a bomb—at least, not the explosive kind.

"Call me when the contents are known." He started to terminate the call, but stopped and then returned the phone to his ear. "Take care, my dear. You are just as much a target as I am." He cut the connection before she could reply, as the car turned right onto Thorney Street. The security gates of Thames House opened to take them into the safety of the underground carpark of the rather tired looking building constructed years before the last war.

Mycroft was escorted to the board room at the top floor of the building, where he was offered tea or coffee, which he politely declined after biting back a comment to the effect that this was hardly a social call. He loathed this building and had rejected it as a site for the S&ILS when the service was first set up twenty years ago. Instead, they had taken a small space in in a government building at the corner of Smith Square. Because very few people knew of the existence of the Security & Intelligence Liaison Service, using a set of three rooms in the midst of other civil servants in a boring ministry provided good cover. But neither the blandly furnished office he occasionally used in Nobel House* nor the office he borrowed at the Cabinet Office on occasions really suited him. When there was real work to be done, he preferred to do it in private at the Diogenes Club.

While he waited for news, he stood quietly contemplating the view across the river. Anyone observing him would have assumed he was just waiting for yet another routine meeting. Nothing in his demeanour suggested anything out of the ordinary. Stifling his instinct to focus on what was going on at the Diogenes, he forced himself to think of other, more mundane things.

Looking up river, Mycroft considered the view to be something of a calculated comment—designed to intimidate anyone involved with the internal security of the country. Squatting like some strange ziggurat, the green glass and beige stone of MI6's offices at Vauxhall Cross on the south bank screamed more money, more resources and significantly more clout. External security was just so much more _everything _than its internally focused brethren on the north bank of the Thames.

The outward calm he projected while standing at the window belied his inward turmoil. Bored with the view, Mycroft had succumbed to calculating threats, identifying potential perpetrators, and assessing the weaknesses of the thirty-seven people who worked for him in the S&IL. In every case, the simple question was whether there could be any linkage between this embarrassing threat to his personal security and Mycroft's recent discovery that his half-brother, Fitzroy Ford, had managed to extricate himself from a prison in Tbilisi. Apart from Sherlock, Ford was the only one clever enough to be able to subvert the retinal scan security. He'd have to figure out something new—perhaps a digital DNA check, based on a blood sample. If diabetics could prick their fingers twice a day, he could suffer the inconvenience, if it kept his sanctuary safe.

_Why now?_ If Ford was behind the attack, then it would be because he knew his escape from the prison in Tbilisi had been discovered. It was just the sort of flamboyant gesture that Mycroft has been expecting. When hiding the fact of his escape was no longer profitable, Ford would happily throw a gauntlet in his half-brother's face, challenging Mycroft to make public to the other nine people that the man they had exiled was free again.

The DG popped his head into the board room, interrupting Mycroft's train of thought. Peter Carmine was a fifty-seven year old civil servant of adequate, if not exciting, intellect, with a lack of physical presence to match. In a crowd, the man was invisible; his combed-over grey hair failed to hide his balding head, a bland face above an off the peg suit. Mycroft had always thought of him as rather dull, if safe. Carmine's principal claim to fame had been as the head of JTAC, the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre, side-lined there where he could do no harm other than serve out the remaining decade of service before retirement. To everyone else's surprise, the current government had demonstrated its commitment to counter-terrorism by promoting him to the top job as Director General of the Security Service. Mycroft predicted the appointment; plucked from relative obscurity, Carmine was so grateful for the promotion that he was willing to do anything to keep his Conservative Party masters happy.

"I say, Holmes, spot of bother at the digs?"

Mycroft did not allow his dislike of the man's faux "old boy" vocabulary to show. Carmine was a comprehensive school product and a redbrick university graduate who affected an accent and manner to fit in with his Oxbridge peers. The younger man stifled his annoyance; no need to appear rattled.

"It would appear so. Apologies for camping out here; I'm sure it will be sorted soon enough."

"Well, as long as you are going to grace us with your presence, can I bend your ear about the latest inquiry of the Parliamentary Oversight Committee? I need to pick your brain about how you think we should react when they ask us about inappropriate contacts between Number 10 and foreign owners of our media. Should I tell them that we've got concerns?"

There was a part of Mycroft that really wanted to tell the man to go away. _Not now; I'm busy. _But he carefully compartmentalised his internal turmoil about the security breach at the Diogenes and decided this was as good a time as any to try to steer Carmine with regard to one particular media mogul.

"Who have you got on the appearance list?"

"Lebedev, of course. The PM's got his knickers in a twist about the Evening Standard's endorsement of the Labour challenger for London Mayor—wants us to dish the dirt on the man's money laundering habits. The Committee's throwing in a few of the others to try to appear balanced. Murdoch is passing the torch to his son, a naturalised US citizen, so they want us to rattle the bars of his tax avoidance cage. Then there's Magnussen's empire; he's entirely too close to the PM for comfort, so the Committee need to pull him in for a chat, or the opposition will claim we are biased."

Carmine gave a little laugh. "Hardly any English left running our media these days. Even the Barclay Brothers have moved offshore to the Channel Islands. But the real problem is Lord Rothermere; he's thinking about flogging off part of the DGMT empire, and we are worried that Arab money is taking a strategic stake of shares behind the scene; can't imagine the kerfuffle if the Daily Mail ends up owned by the Qataris' _Al Jazeera_, can you? But they're big donors to the Conservative Party, and propping up the property values of half of Knightsbridge, so we can't be too scathing, or they'll pack their carpet bags and head home."

Mycroft wondered if he could use the inquiry to his advantage. Perhaps it was time to remind Magnussen that he owed Mycroft a favour or two in exchange for the blind eye and the occasional titbit that had been thrown in his direction over the past twenty years. Now that Ford was at liberty again, what he had given to Magnussen as his "insurance policy" all those years ago might now come back into play. Mycroft thought it would be timely to re-visit their relationship. Someone else turning up the heat on the Dane at this stage might prove useful, in the long run.

He turned away from the view to face Carmine and raised his left eye-brow, the only expression he would allow himself. "If you think something untoward is going on between the media and the Prime Minister's Office, then by all means, answer the Parliamentary Enquiry with the truth. That is what we are paid to do, Carmine."

His phone rang, and he gave a nod of dismissal to the DG—the sort of expression that demanded privacy, and Mycroft was duly rewarded with an acknowledgement. "Well, I'll leave you to it, then." Carmine backed out and shut the door behind him.

"Yes, my dear; what have they found?"

"The good news is no explosives, no biological agents. But, the box's contents are…unusual sir. I'm sending you two photos- one of the handwriting on the envelope, the second of what we found in the box. "

Mycroft watched the screen on his phone and then when the inbox registered new entries, he clicked on the first of the two attached images.

It opened up and answered the question definitively—right down to the distinctive turquoise ink that Ford ostentatiously used in his Mont Blanc fountain pen to address the envelope. After years of being forced to work for him, Mycroft would recognise it anywhere; it had struck through his most logical conclusions, and been used to draw attention to notes in the margin that completely derailed his careful arguments in favour of ones that suited Ford's wishes rather better than the British interests Mycroft was attempting to preserve.

He closed the photo, and opened the second image with some trepidation.

The box contained bones, carefully embedded in a deep pillow of gauze. A skeleton's left hand, with the phalanges of the thumb, index, ring and pinky fingers folded back, secured somehow despite the absence of the original cartilage, tendons and ligaments. The folded fingers were held in place against the metacarpals that had once been a palm. This left the middle finger extended in what was a rather universally understood insult. Around the very tip of the insulting finger was tied a piece of turquoise string.

Mycroft gave a little snort of derision, and then brought the phone back to his ear. "A crude but effective message, my dear."

"Yes sir. The bomb squad has sent the bones for forensic examination, to see if the hand can be identified."

"That is rather unfortunate; I would have preferred our people to have handled this."

"Unfortunately, sir, once SO15 gets called in, the Met's protocols and chain of evidence has to be maintained."

"Very well; it can't be helped. You can advise the team at Nobel House* to stand down from high alert status. No need to mention details to anyone else, but you and I both know that there is no likelihood of an explosive device there. The message has been delivered."

"Yes, sir."

He terminated the call, and began his journey back to the car in the basement. To anyone observing his passage, no sign was detectable of anything other than his normal calm, placid exterior. But deep inside of Mycroft's mind, in a place that no one had ever penetrated, alarm bells were ringing. The fabric of lies, carefully woven over the past three decades was now unravelling, the edges fraying, the smooth warp and weft being pulled and torn out of place by a single turquoise thread.

oOo

"Are you expecting someone, Sherlock?"

"Noooo." Lounging in his chair, he doesn't even look up, just exaggerates the negative for effect.

"She's dithering—can't make up her mind whether she should ring the doorbell or not."

Sherlock is seated, trying to ignore John's comment. He is pretending to focus on a forensic journal. This is all part of his "let's pretend to be okay" disguise. He is managing his reactions very carefully, so John is not alarmed by the ructions going on in his Mind Palace.

For a number of reasons, this is one occasion when he'd rather not have a case arrive on the doorstep of Baker Street, because that would mean he would most likely have to invite John to get involved, and he was not keen on that happening. The last two times they've been on a case, it placed John yet again in mortal danger. If it wasn't a bonfire, or an exploding tube carriage, it had been a dwarf with a blowgun or his giant companion. The ongoing frustration at not being able to solve this particular "Who is trying to kill John" case was unravelling his thought processes too much these days. Then there was the added complication of his growing anger that he was getting nowhere on Mycroft's "Georgian Connection" problem. Given that the bodies of three dead agents were involved in that little brain teaser, Sherlock was not keen to expose John to any of that, either. _Keep John safe._

It was his promise to Mary; they'd come to a sort of mutual understanding. She was happy enough with them investigating things together, but told Sherlock quite simply that she had other priorities.

"It's part of the Best Man role, Sherlock. You've got to get him to the altar, alive and well. I know you two like the cases that involve risk and danger. I appreciate that, I really do." She had smiled into her cup of coffee at the little café where he had met her, ostensibly to discuss the wedding music arrangements. "And Lord knows, he does really enjoy it all. I don't want to be a party-pooper, but I do worry when there are guns, blood and explosions. So promise me you'll keep him alive."

It wasn't like she was asking him to do something he didn't want to do. Ever since he'd returned, Sherlock had been trying to keep John at arms' length. Too many bad memories still lingered, hatched by his fevered mind turning in on itself in China. While Diane Goodliffe's EMDR therapy had stopped the obvious flashbacks of PTSD, the worries persisted. His _fifty ways John Watson could have died_ were still playing in his head at night. In compensation, he had thrown himself into the wedding preparations as a distraction, and tried to manage his case load in a way that kept John out of the frame. Mary had let him come out to play for the occasional jewellery theft or art case, just to keep his hand in and the boredom at bay for a little while.

There was a price to pay, however. No matter how much John swore that his friendship with Sherlock was based on more than just the adrenaline kick of solving a case, Sherlock was only too aware that he was not an ideal companion when they weren't working on a case. He had no gift of small talk or the usual social interactions that John associated with the concept of "friendship". When they had been sharing the flat it was different; just the process of co-habitation created a relationship that was no longer really there now that John was living with Mary.

Today is a case in point. John seems antsy, on edge. For once, he's the one pacing in the living room, when his attention is caught by something happening outside the window. His desire for a case is probably leading him to misread the actions of someone just passing by the window.

"She's going to ring the doorbell."

Sherlock keeps his eyes focussed on the page. It's an article he is interested in—"The Influence of Fabric Surface Characteristics on Satellite Bloodstain Morphology" by HF Miles, from the Department of Security and Crime Science at UCL. Sherlock respects the man's work, unlike most of the contributors to in the July 2014 edition of Science & Justice, the Journal of the Chartered Society of Forensic Sciences**.

"Oh, no. She's changed her mind."

John seems riveted by the performance on the pavement below the window.

"No, she's gonna do it ... No, she's leaving. She's leaving. ... Oh, she's coming back."

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes. He needs to deter John's enthusiasm. He drops the journal, and raises his head to the ceiling, in a gesture of ennui, if John could be bothered to look in his direction instead of out the window. In a bored baritone, Sherlock says "She's a client. She's boring. I've seen those symptoms before."

"Hmm?"

"Oscillation on the pavement always means there's a love affair."

Sherlock detested adultery cases. Married people were habitually unfaithful to one another, and he has personal experience of the corrosive impact it had on a family where children are involved. So, he routinely declines those cases.

The doorbell finally rings—the requisite number of seconds that always betrays the presence of a client. Perhaps this is one occasion when he will accept the case; it is surely unlikely to expose John to any personal risk. Downstairs, the voice of Mrs Hudson can be heard greeting the woman.

The clatter of women's heels on the wooden steps, and then Mrs Hudson appears with a dark haired young woman, smartly dressed, but with a seriously worried look that rather mars her perfect makeup.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." John is solicitous as usual, pulling a chair out for the young woman and set it in the middle of the room, before returning to his own seat.

Mrs Hudson smiles at John, but the expression fades when she sees Sherlock's posture. "I was about to make some tea. Would you like one, Miss?"

The voice that answers is a bit hesitant, but the northern accent is unmistakable, "Yes, please; that would be very nice." Mrs Hudson disappears down the stairs- clearly she's decided this guest is worthy of the better china. Now that John isn't living in the flat, Sherlock's reverted to the mugs, when he can be bothered to fix his own tea.

"How can we help you?" John's eagerness is clear.

She sits, with a rather prim posture, and self-consciously tugs at the pencil skirt that was a tad too short for comfort, but absolutely on trend. She looks from one to the other.

"I'm not sure where to begin."

Sherlock rolls his eyes in impatience. "The beginning; it generally helps."

John gives him a little sideways glance of reproach.

"Perhaps your name would be a good place to start."

"I'm Paula Sessions. Mrs Paula Sessions. And I've come because of my husband…"

Sherlock could not resist the sigh, and finishes the sentence for her, "…whom you suspect of cheating on you."

She looks a little startled. "Yes, but how did you know?"

Sherlock waves a hand and makes a fed-up face. "It's obvious. Tell me something that isn't, or go away and find someone who has a higher threshold of boredom." Perhaps, if he schools his reactions to conform to John's usual dismissal of his social skills, then the doctor will not insist on taking the case.

The young woman sits up a bit straighter. "I've already seen a private detective. He got photographs that make no sense at all. That's why I am here." She reaches into her hand-bag and pulls out a couple of prints, but keeps them in her lap.

John eyes them. "Why don't you tell us the story, Mrs Sessions? In your own words, otherwise the photos won't be in context."

She gives John a grateful smile. Once again, Sherlock realises that John's social skills are useful to keep clients happy. He just can't be bothered, even when he isn't feeling as out of sorts as he is these days. Case work with the Met is different- bodies don't need social skills; real live clients do. There is a reason he prefers crime scenes, and this is it. He steels himself to listen.

"I married Jeffrey Sessions three years ago. He's a hedge fund manager for KKR. High-flier, talented, well-respected in the City as a deal maker. We met at a charity function and just clicked. I work in publishing as an agent, representing a couple of best-selling authors. We've had three happy years, and I still can't believe it."

John prompts her with a sympathetic "Believe what?" while Sherlock tries to find some way to think this is actually worthy of investigating. He finds himself cataloguing her perfume (Beyonce's _Heat_, launched in 2010), and trying to decide whether her hair has been coloured by L'Oreal's salon colour or a home version. Given the expenditure on her wardrobe, he decides it's the salon version, especially when he notes the absence of split ends. A colour and cut within the last fortnight. Oh, and add in the manicure. Tailor-made nails, not some high street nail bar. Fashionable, but not tarty—and not afraid to spend the money to look the part of a hedge-fund's manager. _She really is worried about adultery._

Paula takes a deep breath. "Cheryl—she's my best friend—rang me just under two weeks ago to say that she'd seen Jeffery on Brick Lane, coming out of a curry house. Well, that just didn't make sense. He _hates_ curry and would rather starve than eat in some hole like the one she described; he's quite fussy about hygiene standards. And then she said he hugged a woman in a hooded anorak—really hugged; she couldn't see who it was—too dark, but she came right out and asked me if I thought he was having an affair—it was _that_ kind of hug."

Sherlock waves his hand, "So the seed of mistrust is planted. Do move the story on; we don't have all day."

She looks a little offended, but before she can respond, Mrs Hudson arrives with the tea tray, and the next few minutes are spent in that utterly British ritual of tea. Sherlock actually closes his eyes and just waits while all the fuss is going on. He might decide to give John a safe case, but really, this is too mundane for words.

"Am I putting you to sleep, Mister Holmes?"

The acid in her tone makes him snap open his eyes. "Pray continue." A cup of tea had appeared on the side table by his chair and he eyes it suspiciously, his nose trying to decide whether Mrs Hudson's penchant for PG tips is worth risking. Perhaps not. He puts his hands together, fingers steepled in what he knew John would call his contemplative pose.

"Well, I just couldn't accept it. I mean, we're good together—in every way, socially, on our own, in the bedroom. There's no sign of anything wrong in that department, so I was prepared to think that Cheryl was mistaken. Or maybe jealous. So I just put it out of my head."

John leaned forward, "What changed your mind?"

"Last week, I took his winter coat to the cleaners, and I checked the pockets—I always do, because he once left his oyster card season ticket in there, and the dry cleaning ruined it. I found a receipt from a restaurant called Muhib, on Brick Lane.

"I asked Jeffrey that night if he'd been to Brick Lane, and he just laughed—said no, the idea of it was preposterous."

John asked the obvious question, "Did you ask him about the receipt?"

She shook her head. "I wanted to time to think about it. I _love _my husband—what if Cheryl was wrong? What if there was some innocent explanation? I didn't want to jump to any conclusions."

Sherlock makes a hand gesture that mimicked a wheel turning. He really is getting impatient.

John gives his head a little shake, and then smiles at the client. "Don't mind him, Mrs Sessions. We're listening."

"Well, Mister Holmes is right; once I started to doubt, it prayed on my mind. So, I hired a detective, who tracked him down in the East end and took this photo." She handed the photos on to John, who reacts instantly.

"A man? Your private investigator took a photo of him hugging a man." John is trying to tone down the slight scepticism in his voice. It took someone like Sherlock, who had catalogued every nuance in John's voice, to be able to hear it. "It's something that blokes do; maybe they're both football fans, and their team just won a big match. A hug doesn't mean he's cheating on you."

The doctor passes them to Sherlock, who gives a quick glance and decides to stir things a bit. "Or maybe it does. His orientation might be bi-sexual."

She laughs, incredulous. "No, not a chance of that, he's one hundred percent hetero. More than happy to be rude in private about what he calls the "metrosexuals" who swing both ways. In fact, he's quite reserved. Doesn't like all the air kissing, calls it 'touchy feely'. He doesn't even like to shake hands. Not very PC, I know, and he's way too polite to say anything in public." Then she smirked, "but if he were to have an affair—well, it wouldn't be with a _bald_ bloke, who's poor."

John hands the two to Sherlock, who looks more closely at the first photo. Two men of similar height not much taller than John, one dressed in a fashionable wool coat that was worth a great deal of money, the other is hairless with a flat cap, a torn plastic anorak and grubby trainers. Despite the contrast in clothing, the two are embracing in a bear hug.

Sherlock looks at the second photo. The same scene, the two figures again outside the _Guys and Dolls _massage parlour on Brick Lane. This one is taken from a different angle, and the flat cap has been knocked slightly askew, showing more of the profile of the second man this time. His attention is drawn to the expression on the man's face.

She continued, "There's not enough to identify the person, but the investigator followed him back to Watney Market Housing estate—that's off Commercial Road, apparently, but lost him there. It's a pretty rough area, according to the man—very _ethnic_, if you catch my meaning."

Sherlock sniffs. "Watney Market Housing Estate is predominately Urdu-speaking immigrants and their second generation offspring. This man," he taps the photo, "is white enough to stand out in any crowd, especially with the shaved head that is associated with the British National Front. He isn't _bald_. It doesn't say much for your private investigator that he wasn't able to track him down to get an identity."

Paula looks up at him with a slightly defiant gaze. "Yes—I agree. That's why I am here, Mister Holmes. The idea of Jeffrey being in a relationship with that man— whether he's bald or a racist—just doesn't fit. Not at all; it's impossible. I don't even know where to begin to ask him—it's inconceivable. All I could think is that this man must be blackmailing my husband. That idea put off the private detective, who wants nothing to do with the BNF. You wouldn't be deterred, would you?"

Sherlock catches the whiff of a challenge—a kind of static charge in the air between them. He shrugs, "No, so long as the case isn't boring."

She looks slightly offended at that, as if nothing she could have been involved with would ever be considered boring.

"Tell me about your husband, Mrs Sessions. What's his background? Education, family?"

"How is any of that relevant?"

"It's ALL relevant. John, hand me my pocket magnifier—it's in my coat."

John frowns at the peremptory tone, but obliges. While he is rummaging in the Belstaff pocket, Mrs Sessions begins. "Jeffrey's from Cornwall. Apparently his family has deep roots there but he's not really been back since his parents died. Only child, his mum died when he was twelve and his father when he was seventeen. He was okay, because he was at Marlborough School, and they looked after him until he went to Oxford, Merton College. That's where he got a first in mathematics, and then straight into the City. He's lived a pretty sheltered life—that's what makes this photo so peculiar. I cannot imagine him even knowing someone like this, let alone…embracing him."

When John tosses the black magnifier to Sherlock, he catches it and opens it in one smooth movement, using it to study something that has caught his eye. He focuses very closely on the first photo—the one showing Session's profile.

"Appearances can be deceiving, Mrs Sessions. And life stories can be well documented, but still be utterly false." At this, Sherlock looks up at her. "You seem to have missed a rather salient fact." Sherlock decides she needs to have her preconceived ideas shaken up a bit, so he says, "Whatever is going on between them, the other man is not happy."

Her brow creases along a preformed wrinkle which has been plumped and hydrated to hide it. He notices this while at the same time, in his peripheral vision, he sees John tilt his head—he's trying to follow Sherlock's line of reason, but failing.

The consulting detective hands back the photo. "Look carefully. Even in the poor light, the skinhead has been crying. In medical terms, a secretomotor phenomenon, usually in response to distressing emotion, although Doctor Watson could point out that lacrimation can occur as a result of a medical condition that we can't rule out at this stage."

John reacts first. "Oh, you think this is a hug of what…sympathy? Or condolence?"

"That is not for me to say. I've told you on many occasions that it is not logical to form a conclusion without the data."

Paula Sessions frowns. "What difference does this bloke being upset make? He's still someone my husband wouldn't embrace willingly, not in a million years."

Sherlock finds her obtuse beyond belief. "You've described his family, his childhood, but what evidence have you seen?"

"Evidence?" She sounds confused.

"Yes, _evidence_. What proof is there that any of this story of your husband's is more than just a story?"

She looks scandalised. "Well, I've seen his photo albums. Loads of pictures from Cornwall. He talks about his family all the time. He loved them very much."

"Pictures can be photo-shopped, a fact of which I am sure you are aware. Even aged and re-dated to suit a narrative. Unless you've seen the negatives, these albums could be a total work of fiction."

She stutters, "But…

He's bored with her protestations, so interrupts. "And university?" He shifts his scrutiny to the second photo, the one with the skinhead in profile.

"What about it?"

"_Evidence!?_"

She laughs, "You mean as in what's been on his CV for the past decade? What head hunters have used for years to get him his jobs? And, yes, Oxford still counts. We were due to go to his reunion at Merton last year, until a client in New York demanded he fly over to close a deal. I didn't mind—had a wonderful shopping spree on Fifth Avenue that was a damned-sight more fun that a room full of braying upper class toffs. Jeffrey dislikes them generally; we were only going because he wanted to make a donation."

"So, he hasn't introduced you to any of his university friends." He makes it a statement, because he already knows the answer to his own question, but he needs her to see it, too.

"I'm glad he hasn't. The 'good old boys' aren't my cup of tea, any more than they are his." Then she smirks. "But if the newspapers are to be believed, you'd know the type, wouldn't you, Mister Holmes. You're a public school Oxbridge boy. Have you got any school boy or university friends?"

"No."

She looked a little smug at that admission. "So, why are you wasting time asking about my husband when you should be asking about this mystery bloke?"

"Because whatever you've been told by your husband, there is one thing that doesn't lie and that's DNA."

Now he has both John and Mrs Session's attention. "The good news is that this man is not a lover, Mrs Sessions. No competition in the bedroom, which is what you were afraid of. Nor is he likely to be a blackmailer."

Mrs Sessions digests these statements, and then looks quizzically. "Then what is he?"

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

John turned in his chair to stare at Sherlock, with the glimmer of realisation dawning on his face.

But no such insight shows in the woman' eyes. Sherlock sighs. "The photographs… you have seen them, but not observed the most obvious fact. The man is your husband's brother. Not just his brother, his _identical twin _to be more precise."

Outraged, she stutters out, "That is totally ridiculous….impossible. Have you been _listening_ to a single word I've told you about Jeffrey? He doesn't have a brother."

He gives her a look that John had once called his "don't be so stupid" expression. "You haven't been listening to what I've just said. You believe a story that has been told to you by someone who wants to leave behind his East End origins. A man who has carefully manufactured a fantasy life, to compensate for the horrible upbringing he probably endured. It's easily enough done—"borrow" someone's identity, create the paperwork—the birth certificate, the passport, the school records, the university admission. Just curate the image you want to project, and make sure it is intact. It is quite possible to lie for years, even _decades_. Over time, it actually gets easier."

He feels John's eyes on him, but chooses to focus instead on the woman sitting in front of him. "Actually, lying to that degree means that it is almost impossible for the person to _stop_ lying. Because they believe their lies are the only truth that is acceptable to the other people in their lives."

A look of horror starts to creep across her face. "What you are saying is… no, I can't believe it. He has photo albums; pictures of his graduation, his seaside holidays when he was a little boy in Cornwall."

"All of which can be manufactured."

"But, he doesn't look anything like the man in this picture."

"Doesn't he? If he shaved his head and swapped clothes, it would be impossible to tell them apart. He's been careful to manage his appearance to exaggerate their differences. But, _ear patterns don't lie_. They're different on siblings, identical on twins. We're just lucky that your amateur detective managed to get a profile in two separate photos so I could compare both right ears."

"No…."

He rolls his eyes. "Science doesn't _lie_, Mrs Sessions. People do."

"But, _why_?" There was real anguish in her question.

He shrugs. "The better question is, do you love him for who he really is, or for the story he has spun? If you are honest, then you have your reason why he has lied."

Tears well up in her eyes. "How could I trust someone who…"

John finishes the sentence for her, "…has told such a monstrous lie?"

Sherlock notices John's glance in his direction, and knows that the woman is too much in shock to notice the subtext in the doctor's comment.

John returns his gaze to the client. "Speaking from personal experience, I would say that you have to decide whether he did it for the right reasons, Mrs Sessions. If he did, then forgiveness is possible. If you do love him for who he really is, rather than the lies he's spun, then the answer is clear. It's your choice."

After the crying client leaves, John just looks at him. "Somehow, I don't think Mrs Sessions is going to make the right choice, do you?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I doubt it. For her, appearance _is_ the reality."

Perhaps he let some trace of concern or question creep into his tone, because John gives him a reassuring nod.

"I made my choice to forgive your lie. It was the right choice; I don't regret it."

Sherlock releases his control, and smiles for the first time that afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This building actually exists; I know because I used to work next door to it. It is a government building. Remember the scene where John meets with Mycroft to talk about the West case- the missing Bruce Partington plans? This was Mycroft's office in the S&ILS office in Nobel House.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The word narcotic is based on the Greek word ναρκωσις (narcosis), the term used by Hippocrates for the process of numbing or the numbed state. Krypton has a narcotic potency seven times greater than air, so breathing a gas containing 50% krypton and 50% air would cause narcosis similar to breathing air at four times atmospheric pressure. This would be comparable to the pressures of scuba diving at a depth of 30 m (100 ft) and would affect anyone breathing it. Nevertheless, that mixture would contain only 10% oxygen, and hypoxia would be an even greater concern. Sometimes, it isn't the narcotic that kills.

"Why are you staring at me?"

Sherlock asks the question in a tone that seems calm on the surface, but over the years Molly has tuned her ear to hear the currents and eddies that swirl underneath that baritone. He is a man of extremes- either spouting deductions at the speed of light, or keeping quiet for days at a time. When he does go quiet, she has to understand more about him from what his body is doing than the way he is acting through his voice.

What his stance tells her now is not good news. For the past hour, Sherlock has been hunched over a wooden array with over fifty capped test tubes in it, each one meticulously labelled. He is using the Barts computer system to analyse the pollen content of the water in the tubes, all drawn from various locations on the Thames.

It's late, after a long day in the mortuary, and Molly needs to finish her paperwork before she can go home to feed Toby; Tom has said he might stop by for a drink after he finishes a boys' night out at the pub where they first met.

She's almost done, just has to load data taken from the last post mortem. As the woman was an obese seventy year old chain smoker who had died from COPD and lung cancer at a care home, it's a task that she could do with her eyes closed. So, she seizes the opportunity for a bit of Sherlock-watching. She watches him type in the latest data, noting the tiniest of deviations from his usual blistering speed- and the occasional hesitation, backspacing to make a correction.

"I'm not _staring_; I'm observing," Molly says quietly.

That makes him look up from the computer screen for the first time. He doesn't actually make eye contact, but looks at the keyboard she should be typing on, but isn't.

"What?" This time the question has a bit of edge to it.

There was a time when that stern interrogative would have set off a blush. When she first met him years ago, she was so tongue-tied and fraught in his presence that the snapped question would have sent her scurrying back into her work, apologising for interrupting his concentration.

Not anymore. "It's something of an experiment; I've been running it every time you've shown up here over the past six weeks."

Now he looks both confused and slightly cautious.

"Is Stamford giving you grief about the lab time I'm clocking up under your name?"

"No."

She pushes back from the lab bench, letting the castors on the stool turn her so she can face him more directly. Not surprisingly, his gaze retreats to peripheral vision, turning his eyes back onto the computer screen in front of him.

"I couldn't see it at first, but then you were careful to start with. It was only once a week, and I thought it was a good thing, to see you back here experimenting. But now that you're in here three times a week, I know better."

He looks up at the array of test tubes, as if he were about to continue his work. "I've explained what I am doing, Molly. It may look tedious, but it is an important part of the model I've built to help identify the point of origin for body dumps in the Thames. This is a blind trial and I have to deduce the origin of the samples from the organic material. The water carries pollen at this time of year, and if it proves to be a significant variable it can give greater accuracy to my original database."

She shakes her head. "I haven't forgotten the hypothesis, Sherlock. It's given you a useful excuse to come to Barts on a regular basis for the past six weeks, as the samples collected by Doctor Foreman* and her team come in. I know all that."

"Then what is your experiment?"

"I know you're buying drugs from someone here in the hospital. The experiment is to see how much of them you end up taking before you get down here."

If she is expecting him to react with guilt, she doesn't get it.

Instead, a bland question: "How have you come to such a baseless conclusion?" as he lifts the next test tube out of the array.

She gives a slight smile. "It's not like you to make someone repeat themselves, but then…I suppose…yes, well; it's evidence in and of itself, isn't it? I have _observed_ you, Sherlock."

He doesn't answer, but uses the pipette to draw a sample, putting a drop of it onto the slide. It is a fiddly job, and she sees the faintest of hesitations in the right hand as he puts the pipette down, and then positions and places the slip cover over the slide. He is being meticulous—_too_ careful in his movements, the way drunks do when they're not quite confident of their control.

Molly is a pathologist. She has been trained to see things that are different, unusual. What would have been seen as perfectly normal in someone else is not in Sherlock's case. She'd always been impressed by the fine motor skills he showed when doing his experiments—his lack of self- consciousness gave him a fluidity that is now missing.

At least he has not denied her accusation…yet. She decides to press on, with a slight shrug. "Of course, it is logical. Barts is one of your regular haunts, and it's not going to attract the attention that meeting a street dealer would. And a hospital—what better place to source one's drugs? Medicinal quality, undiluted, uncut- expensive though, I would imagine. But then while you were away, you must have found ways of stashing the proceeds of crime in places where other people wouldn't find it. So, resources, opportunity and…" Molly pauses, wondering if she has the courage to really push this. She watches his eyes focusing down the lens at the sample, and sees the tiredness in his face. Worry gives her impetus to continue.

"…motive—yes, let's not forget that. I saw what happened in the stairwell ten days ago; you can't deny that. I still have the bruises."

That makes him blink, a couple of times, but he doesn't shift his gaze from the lens.

She wonders how much of it he remembers. "You had some sort of sensory...thing. Lost your balance and cracked your knee on the stair: I tried to help and you shoved me away, then ran up the stairs and out. It worried me."

He mumbles, "You were injured? I didn't know that. Sorry."

She shakes her head. "That wasn't the point I was trying to make. What's going on, Sherlock?"

"Nothing." He fiddles some more with the focus knob.

Two and a half years ago, she might have stopped here, stymied by his avoidance. But, her visit to Diane Goodliffe** has strengthened her resolve.

"That's not a good enough answer, not now."

She sees confusion crease the space between his eyebrows, and waits.

At first, he carries on examining the slide, as if hoping his silence will ensure that the conversation is over. She doesn't move her chair, but continues to stare at him, knowing that he can still see her with his peripheral vision.

A few moments later, the brow furrows more as curiosity overcomes his instinct for silence. "What does that _mean_?"

She jumps in. "It means that you can't treat me the way you used to. It means I won't take silence for an answer. Sherlock, I carried your secret for two years. I watched John fall into depression and did nothing to stop it, even though I could have. I did that for you, because you asked me to."

Molly takes a breath before continuing, her voice quiet but firm. "It was a horrible thing to ask of me. I think you know that now. So, when I ask you now to tell me why, you _owe_ me an answer."

She realises that there is something cathartic going on- getting this off her chest feels good. "After you returned, you disappeared from view. After that skeleton business in Whitechapel you didn't come to the lab at all, and I was kept out of whatever went on at Hartswood. I didn't _count_; I know that I probably never will to the other people who call themselves your friends, your family. But, _you _said I did, and I don't think you were lying. So, I expect the truth from you now." She let him digest that, and then asked, "Why are you using drugs again?"

There was no answer, his silence confirming her suspicions.

"Is it because John is getting married?"

He closes the eyes that had been looking down the lens. "No. Why does everyone think that somehow that is a _bad _thing for me? He's found someone to love, the wife he has always wanted, a chance to start a family and to be happy. I know I may be self-centred, but I am not so far gone as to wish him anything but the happiness he deserves."

She bites her lip, but plucks up her courage. "That's all very noble of you. But trying to not react to what has happened, what's changed between you two- well, that must be hard. Are you using drugs to numb the pain?"

Sherlock doesn't reply but resumes working, noting something down on the pad beside the microscope and then typing on the keyboard. Molly sees an image on the screen of a half dozen round objects each with a couple of bumps on them, almost like an orange.

He notices her looking. "Silver birch pollen. Most likely found in the sector between Blackfriars and the Millennium Footbridge." He points to the label on the tube, "which is where I think the sample was taken. The trees are in front of the Tate Modern. Silver birch pollen is quite a distinctive shape."

She is momentarily surprised. "Can't you just use a database search on a photographed image of what's on the slide?"

"Palynology** is useful, but there is no database that will identify something just by its image."

She's slightly thrown by that fact. "Why? If Google can search zillions of images online, why can't a botany database do this? It seems like scut work that should be automated."

He snorted in derision. "Because there are 380,000 different species of plants on the planet, each with its own unique pollen type, and if you factor in geographic variations in the gene pools of each species, the number becomes too big. Without a direct commercial application, there is no money to fund such a database."

As a pathologist, Molly is well aware of the limitations on her own work that are placed by some medical conditions not being deemed worthy of research. "So, how is it possible to use pollen to identify the location of your samples?"

He wrote another number on the pad. "I know what species are indigenous to the Thames Valley and have plotted the map of their greatest concentrations. A smaller data set and visual verification makes this possible. Because pollen count in the water changes depending on where you are, it may be diagnostic, if the ratios remain valid within acceptable levels of tolerance. Even if the same types of plants are growing in different areas, the ratio of concentration in the water of each plant will be different- one place may have 70 percent birch, 20 percent London Plane, and 10 percent grass while another area may have the same plants, but different concentrations. It is my belief that each stretch of the Thames has its own unique pollen print generated from those plants." He pointed at the screen. "That pollen will be in the victim's lungs if they were killed near the place where the body was put into the river. It's in the air that they breathed, which helps locate them."

"Would such a thing stand up in court?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Circumstantial at best, but evidence that points an investigation in the right direction is often more important; from there, it's possible to build a case. With this database, the police don't even need a dead body or its lung tissue. Even if you put a criminal's clothes through a washing machine, a pollen print remains on the fabric. Think of it as a fingerprint for a river bank, a relatively indestructible fingerprint that is specific to the time of the year. What is a pollen signature in April for an area is not the same in July, or January. It's a hideously complicated database with dozens of variables. Not easy."

The little lecture was delivered in his typical all-in-one breath speed, and the scientist in her was fascinated with the idea that location of a crime scene might be identified by something that gave her hay-fever every spring. She could picture those birch trees by the museum; she'd always liked them. That made her visualise the view across the river. "There are lots more plane trees all along the north embankment from Westminster Bridge down to Blackfriars. How can you be sure that the pollen there isn't being moved away by the tidal flow?"

"Plane tree pollen will appear in the water samples in the first two weeks of May; it's still too early. Remember that time is also a variable, and not just the day of a month. Pollen counts vary according to the time of day and the weather conditions, with greater concentrations being released on warm days in the noon to four o'clock period. So temperature, rain and a 24 hour clock need to be factored in."

For a moment, Molly finds herself side-tracked by thinking of just how many variables needed to be considered, before she realises what he was doing.

She crosses her arms and gives him a stern look. "So, if it isn't because of John, then why are you taking drugs again?"

He rolls his eyes. "This is _far_ more interesting a subject, I can assure you," and returns to looking through the microscope lens.

"Not to me."

"Well, it is to me, so just go. Run off to that fiancé of yours; I'm sure he's better company."

"No. You can't fob me off; answer the question."

"Why should I? Why does it matter? What possible difference can it make to anyone other than me what chemicals I choose to ingest?"

"I'm not interested in the chemicals, Sherlock, but I do want to know why you feel the need to take them."

He sighs, jotting down a number against the handwritten silver birch note on the pad.

She waits.

The deadlock continues until the odd noise of a vibrating phone interrupts. Both she and Sherlock look around, and then Molly identifies it as coming from her handbag. She rummages around and then plucks it free, looking for the caller ID.

"He's getting impatient. Go home."

"No. Not until you tell me."

"Molly…"

"I mean it."

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. "Well, don't make me into the villain when he gets annoyed." He reaches for the pipette, preparing the next slide.

Molly knows that he will do nine more and then take the average count of concentrations to write up in the database. She decides that this is one standoff she is not going to lose. She returns the call, but it goes straight to voice-mail; Tom's probably still at the pub. She decides to leave a message, rather than text, because then Sherlock will hear it and deduce the truth.

"Hello, love; it's me. I'm stuck at work—complicated case that's going to take ages yet. So, could you be a dear and feed Toby for me? I'll text you when I leave here." Then she shoves the phone back into her handbag.

Sherlock finishes up making the slide. "You _lied_. Why?"

"You said not to make you into the villain. Anyway, you are a complicated case, if there ever was one. So, I'm not going anywhere until you answer my question."

"You wouldn't understand." He slips the new slide onto the microscope stage.

"You can't judge that until you know what my reaction is. And that means you have to tell me, so I can have a reaction. You're the logical one."

He sighs and jots another number on the notepad. "Molly, _no one_ has ever understood; _everyone _jumps to the wrong conclusions. Don't take it personally." The pencil is now being tapped, marking the tempo of his irritation at her interrogation.

"I do take it personally. I didn't judge you when you decided what you had to do about Moriarty; just try, please."

He puts the pencil down and turns around on the stool to face her. Crossing his arms, he gives her a sideways look that says he is sceptical, cynical, even reluctant. But then he starts.

"I take drugs because they allow me to feel what you would call _normal_; I don't get anxious, or stressed by sensory overload, I don't get bothered by emotions I can't control; I _relax_. They slow things down to the point where I can cope with the idiocy of my life at the moment. If any prescribed medicine could numb the agitation, I'd take it. But, it doesn't, so I use the drugs that do."

He shrugs. "It's my bad luck that the rest of the world sees one type of chemical as good, but when you add a few other molecules to it, suddenly it becomes bad. Anti-depressants don't work on me; stimulants do. I'm in control of it; occasional use stops the anxiety and agitation getting in the way. It means that I can cope with the inane tasks that are required to deliver a wedding, something that I'd usually say is mind-numbingly boring. You asked why I took something on the way down here." He gives a gesture behind him. "Do you think I would have the patience to handle this amount of repetitious detail work if I hadn't?"

She thinks this through. "You've done experiments this complicated before without drugs; in fact, you used to say that it was what calmed you down and gave you focus. Why now?"

He won't meet her eyes, and then squirms a tiny bit on the chair. "I don't _know_. I can't explain it. Nothing is what it is supposed to be, what it used to be like. Experiments are different now, even solving crimes has changed. Nothing's felt right since I got back."

"Did you use when you were away?"

"No, of course not." He looks affronted by her question.

"Why not? You had to be facing change all the time; new people, places, nothing was familiar. And dangerous, I can't forget that. I can't imagine anything more stressful than putting up with it all non-stop for two years."

Sherlock seems to consider this. "It was different. I knew things were going to be challenging, but it didn't matter, because it was _necessary_. I had to do it, if I was going to be sure that Moriarty's contingency plans didn't end up killing John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson—or me, for that matter. That gave me the focus I needed to put up with just about anything. Drugs would have only slowed me down and interfered—too dangerous to relax, not to be at the top of my game. I didn't need them, not at all."

"And you are missing that focus now?"

Sherlock looks down at the floor. "Yes…" but then he immediately contradicts that. "No…" He drags his hands through his hair, as if the stimulation might help him find words. "I don't know; nothing matters in the same way. There's no…" He stops, and his right hand flails a bit in frustration.

She is moved by this honesty; by his inability to put it into words. And it worries Molly, deeply. "What can I do to help?"

This time the answer is immediate and emphatic, and this time he looks straight at her. "Nothing. Do nothing. Don't tell anyone else about this conversation, or what you are thinking about what you think you've observed. Just don't." And then, in an echo of a plea he'd made almost three years ago, Sherlock said. "Please, I do need your help, Molly. But this time, all I want you to do is leave me alone."

Molly thinks about it. She's been aware that he's used drugs before, and it hasn't changed her feelings about him. But maybe he'd misconstrued her past silence for acceptance, which worries her. "I don't condone the use of drugs, Sherlock. I never have and I can't now, you know that. It's dangerous—and unfair to those who care about you. But…" Molly takes a deep breath. "This isn't about the drugs, is it? Not really. Just…" she stops, uncertain how to phrase what she wants to say.

He won't meet her gaze. She feels his sadness, and somehow this is worse, far worse than that time in the lab the time when she saw him looking sad, when he thought John couldn't see him. That memory gives her confidence. "If you promise me that you won't let this get out of hand, I won't say or do anything right now. But I am here. When it gets to be too much, remember that."

"I can control the drugs; it's not a problem. Nobody else has noticed."

Molly shakes her head. "It's not about getting away with it, Sherlock. You have to find a way to deal with the problem properly, because it's not the drugs that will kill you. It's the reason why you are taking them that'll do that."

Sherlock doesn't reply. He turns and resumes his work on the next slide.

oOoOoOoOo

"Have you got a list?"

There was no reply.

Mycroft sighed and said quietly, "Don't make me repeat myself."

He looked down at the figure of his brother, sprawled across the duvet like a starfish. Sherlock had turned his head away from him when he walked in the door; all he could see was the tousled hair.

He sniffed. "You'll need a haircut, too."

This provoked a groan, as he knew it would. Then a petulant voice muffled in the pillow said, "Why? What did you do with the trunk I packed last year?"

"The chauffeur collected it from…the house in Harrow, where you left it." Mycroft chose not to mention that the said trunk had been held as police evidence until the autopsy came through, proving that Robert McGarry had died of natural causes, a cerebral aneurysm that had burst while he was sleeping.* For nine months, Mycroft had wondered whether the shock of finding his Chemistry master and mentor was what had driven Sherlock onto the streets of London.

Mycroft eyed the length of pale bony forearm protruding from the pyjama sleeve. "If you're thinking that you will still fit into anything that was packed into that trunk, you'll have to think again. By my estimation, you've grown at least two inches taller the past year—despite your appalling diet and living conditions."

"Don't start." This was less muffled, as Sherlock levered himself up on his elbow and glowered over his shoulder at his brother.

"I won't, so long as you are dressed and ready to leave the house in forty-five minutes."

There got him another peevish "Why?"

"Because your arrival at Cambridge next month demands that you are properly dressed. And that means you need new clothes. I've arranged a fitting at New & Lingwood*. If I can bear it, we will stop by Trumper's and get your hair cut. One morning and it's done."

"If _you_ can bear it? What about _me_?!"

Mycroft was trying to get Sherlock motivated about going to university, but it was proving to be challenging. He'd got a list of the clothing items in the trunk from Mrs Walters at Parham; the housekeeper had faxed it to him last night. The things that were not affected by the teenager's growth spurt would be arriving in three days' time. But, he wanted Sherlock to take some ownership of the process of preparing for his new life. That's the advice he'd been given by Dr Cohen.

"You need to help him prepare for this life transition. It's important that he has all the time he needs to get his mind around it." The petite psychiatrist had come to the house to talk to Mycroft while Sherlock was at the Guildhall Music Library.

Mycroft sniffed. "He's been to public school; college life is not that dissimilar."

"Maybe it wasn't to you, but it will certainly be for him. School life is bound by strict rules. The boundaries of acceptable behaviour are all set, and rigorously maintained. There wasn't a moment during his day when there wasn't someone operating in _locus parentis_. His weaknesses in executive functioning were compensated for by the regime. Once he is at university, he will be the only one responsible for getting himself out of bed, dressed and attending classes. No one will see whether he eats, sleeps or takes care of himself, until it gets so obvious that he's in trouble—by which time it will be too late." She delivered this lecture with the sternness of a headmistress.

"So what do you suggest?"

"You have six weeks to get him to do all of those things himself. Consider it a trial-run. Sell it to him that way. He has to demonstrate that he can manage on his own, or you will insist on his living out of college, with a resident house-keeper."

As much as he'd have preferred that arrangement- especially if that house-keeper could double as a body guard—Mycroft knew that Sherlock would never accept it.

Throughout the summer, Dr Cohen came to the South Eaton Place townhouse twice a week for sessions with Sherlock. Mycroft had enquired occasionally about those sessions.

"They're private, Mycroft, for a reason. Sherlock needs space to talk about what happened in the past year, and how he is coping with taking responsibility."

"He's _talking?_" He made his disbelief plain. Mycroft's own hopes of getting his brother to tell the truth about his time spent with Mason, and how it had ended in the man being murdered, had been repeatedly dashed. He'd not confronted Sherlock with the fact that he knew the truth. It was a delicate balancing act. A confession from him would lead Sherlock to asking too many questions about how Mycroft knew, the blackmail evidence and just who was behind it all. Keeping Ford's existence a secret was something that Mycroft was determined to do, at all costs.

So far, fraternal conversations had been a study in oblique attempts; never a full frontal assault. It seemed to suit Sherlock, who wanted nothing more than to leave it all behind him, if Mycroft was to believe what little the boy would say about his nine months on the streets. Most of their conversation had focused on getting Sherlock to do what he had said he would do.

Eyeing the semi-comatose figure of the teenager, he wondered whether Sherlock would be able to manage at Cambridge. Mycroft had to stifle both irritation and a pang of fear. As trying as it had been to share the townhouse with Sherlock for the past ten weeks, at least he'd been able to organise someone to keep an eye on him at all times. Stimpson and Miss Forster did what they could in the house, but Mycroft could not expect them to provide close protection whenever Sherlock left South Eaton Place.

Of the two Research Associate men hired for the summer, one was Jeremy Forton, who had been listening in on the night at the Priory when the whole sorry saga began. He was the one who apprehended the nurse, Clifford Akroyd, and been there when Mycroft and Ranger had first confronted the man in Neasden, but mercifully not when the final showdown with Ford had taken place. If Forton had concerns about whether his boss's disappearance had anything to do with that, he'd kept his silence when talking to the police- a quality of discretion that made Mycroft request his services in particular.

Their first contact at the townhouse had been a conversation where more was left unsaid. When Mycroft had thanked him for his discretion, Forton's reaction was to nod and then ask, "I don't suppose it is possible for you to say anything about what did or didn't happen after I left Neasden?"

When Mycroft shook his head, Forton continued. "Thank you, sir, for this assignment. I know how important his survival is to you. And something of the risks involved. I will do my best."

And he had. Sherlock had twice made a half-hearted attempt to evade his security detail. Both times Forton was able to keep him in sight. "Just a bit of fun" had been Sherlock's excuse when Mycroft confronted him on the subject. "He's good; thinking of recruiting him, are you?"

Mycroft smirked. The thought had occurred to him.

Come the end of September, though,Mycroft would have to rely on someone new, someone Sherlock wouldn't recognise and a person able to conduct covert surveillance at a distance, which ran its own risks.

His brother's ability to manage his own timetable and take responsibility for his decisions over the next six weeks might prove challenging. This morning's decision to have a lie-in rather than the shopping he'd agreed to do with Mycroft was a case in point.

"When you are dressed, I have a present for you."

There was a monosyllabic grunt from the bed, which Mycroft decided to interpret as assent.

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft was relieved when the door to the front sitting room opened. He peered over the Financial Times to see his brother sweep into the room. The sight raised a smile which he hid behind the newspaper. Sherlock was always one for dramatic entrances. He was now reasonably attired for the weather; today was forecast to be the hottest day of the year. But, the khaki trousers which were too short, a white cotton shirt that was a bit tight and a blue linen jacket, the sleeves of which showed that it was from last year's wardrobe. Mycroft's tailor would instantly see the opportunity.

Sherlock walked over to the round Georgian table in the front window, and picked up the box with a bow. Slipping the ribbon off, he opened it to see a Blackberry mobile phone in it. Mycroft watched around the edge of his paper to see the boy's reaction.

"A phone? What do I want a phone for? No one ever calls me."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and folded the newspaper. "It's a phone, Sherlock, which isn't just about _receiving_ calls. You just might want to call me, or someone else for that matter." It wouldn't take much for the boy to deduce that the other person Mycroft had in mind was Doctor Cohen.

"There are pay phones at Trinity; the Burrell's Field rooms all have them at the end of the corridor."

"But you won't be in your room that often. The classrooms, the chemistry labs are across the river. This goes with you, everywhere. And you can use it to send emails, too, if you can't be bothered to actually talk."

Sherlock lifted the phone out of the box and eyed the tiny keyboard. "That's neat."

Mycroft agreed. Blackberry phones had become the phone of choice for all of the UK's security services. Using radio waves rather than the other mobile phone networks, Blackberry phones were highly encrypted and secure, as well as less prone to cell coverage gaps. The qwerty keyboard also helped make it an efficient method of sending emails- or receiving them, as Mycroft would be doing on a regular basis, just to keep Sherlock aware that he was keeping an active interest in his progress. That too had been discussed with Dr Cohen.

"You'll need to keep it charged, but it has a longer battery life than any other phone on the market here."

Sherlock had already turned it on and was looking at the small screen, investigating how the various buttons opened different menus.

Mycroft hoped that his brother would leave it on, all the time. He'd managed to customise this one, with a signal tracer buried inside the casing. So long as he was within a two mile radius, the new Research Associate man would have a fighting chance of keeping Sherlock under surveillance from a distance as a result. It had been Mycroft's only way to manage his fear of letting Sherlock out of his control. The two men guarding Sherlock whenever he left the townhouse this summer had been stood down for today; it had been a condition of Sherlock's agreeing to the shopping trip with Mycroft.

Two hours later, after steering an increasingly hot and bothered Sherlock around Mayfair, Mycroft was beginning to realise that there was only so much of his brother's company he was actually willing to tolerate. The session at his tailor's had been torturous. The problem was that Sherlock's hypersensitivity made fabric choice difficult. Still, when Sherlock left the shop he was wearing a new linen and silk jacket over a crisp white shirt. The trousers would have to wait, because they needed to be tailored to fit his tall, spare frame. The tailor was patient, but even his naturally polite smile became strained by the end of it all.

By the time they got to Trumper's, Mycroft had given up on trying to be civil. His barber had spent the past two years doing the best he could with Mycroft's receding hairline and thinning hair, so his rather wide-eyed look at the mass of dark tousled curls on the head of the young man sitting in the chair only added insult to injury.

"In addition to the haircut, he needs to be taught how to shave."

Sherlock's rather sulky expression turned into a scowl. "I _know_ how to shave, Mycroft."

"The razor burn on your neck and the nick on the edge of your jaw say otherwise."

Under the barber's gown, a pair of arms crossed petulantly. "Well, if you hadn't been in such a rush, then I might have been able to take more care."

The barber tried to defuse the tension in the air. "Getting the best from a wet shave and a razor takes practice; you might find some of my tips useful, sir."

Sherlock was beyond being polite. "Oh, just get on with it. I hate the whole process of being _touched_ by anyone, so make this as quick as possible or I will just get up and walk out."

Somewhat startled by the abrupt tone, the barber picked up his scissors and went to work.

By the time the floor under the chair was awash with dark curls, Mycroft could see that Sherlock's level of fidgeting was escalating to the point of imminent rebellion. He'd opened his mouth to suggest that the shaving lesson could wait, when he was interrupted by the sound of his own Blackberry ringing.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and brought it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Mister Holmes."

The tinny voice on the other end of a bad international line had the faintest of Slavic accents, but Mycroft recognised it immediately.

"Yes. You have news for me?" The call was from Moscow; he had a personal contact there in the Finance Academy who had been serving in the Russian consulate in Mexico City.

"Indeed. You asked me to get to the bottom of what happened on the night of the 20th of June. Well, the story is amazing, but true."

Mycroft eyed Sherlock fidgeting in the chair, but decided that this call could not be deferred. Piotr was taking a great personal risk calling from Russia. He would just have to keep his side of the conversation vague. He nodded to his barber, "Do try to finish, quickly." Then he walked to the back of the shop and spoke into the phone, "Go ahead."

"You know that on the night of the 19th of June, the President's head of security Korzakhov stopped Chubais's people from taking half million dollars from the Kremlin?"

"Yes, of course."

"The next day Deputy Prime Minister Chubais was all over state television accusing Korzakhov of a coup attempt, and the next day the Kremlin issues a statement that Yeltsin has sacked Alexander Yasilyevich, and his Presidential Security Service is taken over by the Chubais faction. And onward they go arm and arm to Yeltsin's re-election."

"Yes. I _know._" That much had been shared between all the Western intelligence services. None of it really explained why Ford was so adamant that Yeltsin would win the second round, but then he had won, much to everyone in the West's surprise. Ford's smugness at backing the right horse against the odds had boosted his star immeasurably with the British PM.

There was a bit of static on the line and then Piotr's voice returned mid-sentence, "…was not seen much before the second vote, and apart from his acceptance speech, scarcely at all afterwards. Statements from the President's dacha at Shuiskaya Chupa say he is resting after the tough campaign."

Mycroft sighed. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Well, I now know what happened in the Kremlin that night, and why he's holed up in Karelia near the border with Finland."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and through clenched teeth, snapped, "Get on with it."

"On the night of the 19th of June, Yeltsin had a heart attack."

Mycroft could not control his sudden intake of breath in surprise, nor how the shock of this news straightened his posture.

Piotr continued, "Chubais' people panicked; they were convinced he was going to die. So they raided the President's office, liberated the satchel of dollars he has always kept there ever since the 1991 coup attempt and tried to get out of the Kremlin, while the doctors were in the bedroom trying to resuscitate him. Korzakhov's people intercepted them and interrogated them for twelve hours trying to find out if they'd poisoned Yeltsin to bring on a heart attack. Apparently not; the doctors were able to get his heart going again and they were able to use medication to keep him on his feet for the three public engagements he had before the vote on 3 July and then his acceptance speech- after which they whisked him off to the dacha, where an American cardiologist brought across the border from Finland is treating him."

Mycroft felt a pair of grey-green eyes on him as this tale unfolded. Turning around, he realised that Sherlock was watching him in the reflection of the mirror.

He didn't want to be overheard, but he had to ask, "Who's in charge?"

"Not Chubais. The Family don't trust him now. It's Berezovsky and the other six who are pulling the strings- and raking in the benefits like there was no tomorrow- because if Yeltsin dies, there will be no tomorrow for them."

Mycroft closed his eyes, stunned by the implications of this. Ford must have somehow found out about Yeltsin's heart attack but got Mycroft to change the report to the British Prime Minister to get Britain to back him anyway. If the Russian president died, then it would be Mycroft's head on the block for recommending that Britain should back Yeltsin. If Yeltsin survived, then Britain's support would be considered invaluable at a crucial time, and buy a lot of good will in the Kremlin- or rather amongst those who were actually in charge. And it would be Ford who would get the credit in Britain. For the first time, Mycroft also realised that Ford would also be seen as a champion in the eyes of those who were in charge of Russia.

Between the two rounds of voting, Ford must have known the Davos Four and their fellow travellers were manoeuvring behind the scenes to wrest power away from both the stricken president and his vice-president. This explained why Korzakhov had been dismissed. With the President's own security force out of play, that meant for all intents and purposes the oligarchs and their sleeping partner, Ford, had been running the Russian Government for nearly three months. And no one in the West knew it.

The success of this audacious plan hinged on Yeltsin's survival, so again, despite the risk of being overheard, he had to ask, "What are the odds of that lasting?"

There was a snort from the Russian on the other end of the line. "Who knows? Be careful, my friend."

"And you. Call immediately if there is an update. Goodbye."

Mycroft evaluated the situation in the few seconds that passed between hanging up and walking back to the barber's chair, where Sherlock's hair was now being blown dry. Mycroft knew Piotr's revelations meant that he finally had some leverage over Ford, but with every hour that passed, it might disappear, if Yeltsin died. He made a decision.

"Sherlock, I have to go. Duty calls. I'll leave the car behind and Stimpson will take you home; I'll walk."

He was only half way down Duke of York Street by the time Ford answered.

Mycroft put every ounce of steely determination in his voice. "We need to talk, now."

"It isn't convenient."

"The truth rarely is. But you have a choice of hearing it from me, or reading it in tomorrow's newspaper. Shall I meet you in an hour at your flat, or the office?"

After a moment's hesitation, Ford replied, "Neither. Ninety minutes—at the Diogenes."

Mycroft put that time to the best possible use. What he was going to do was exceedingly risky; he'd be bluffing that he knew more than he actually did, and that he had the incriminating hard evidence to back up the story, as well. But Mycroft also knew that this was the best chance he was going to get to buy both himself and Sherlock some breathing space.

So he spent the next ninety minutes taking whatever steps he could to mitigate the risk. After an eight minute walk through St James's Square to the club, he got there with enough time to write a letter. He got the concierge at the Diogenes to photocopy it and he then sealed them into six separate individually addressed envelopes, before packaging the whole lot into an envelope which he took up the road to the Lower Regent Street post office. The package was mailed express delivery to Dr Esther Cohen, whom he asked to post each of the enclosed letters. Should anything happen to him as a result of the coming confrontation with Ford, he needed to put in place some way of neutralising the bastard and protecting Sherlock.

It was his insurance policy—a tersely factual account, sent to the people who he figured would be able to resist Ford's counter-measures and bluster. By posting it to someone who would probably not be on his half-brother's immediate list of suspects to be neutralised, Mycroft hoped that it would suffice.

He decided against phoning Esther to warn her and to explain; even a Blackberry could be hacked by someone with Ford's contacts, so he couldn't risk it. In fact, the very thought of it made him worry. While waiting in the queue at the post office, he deleted the record of the call with Piotr, and then turned his phone off. He did not want it to be on, or any of its contents traceable.

When Mycroft returned from the post office, the Diogenes concierge used sign language to tell him that Ford had arrived. He was shown to Ford's office in the basement, where his half-brother was waiting.

And the man looked annoyed, despite leaning with some nonchalance against the front of his desk, with ankles crossed and arms folded. "That's my afternoon ruined, Holmes, so this had better be good."

Mycroft gave him a raised left eyebrow. "That depends on your perspective. I'd hazard a guess that Boris Yeltsin isn't too happy about his heart attack, and that your cronies in Moscow won't be happy when the news gets out."

"Who's been spreading a rumour then?"

Mycroft snorted. "As if I would tell you. That would be followed forthwith by my source's immediate death. And it's not a rumour, so don't pretend it is. No, you will have to try harder."

That got him a tilt of the head; Ford's dark wavy hair dropped a strand of dark hair onto his forehead, as he acknowledged Mycroft's point. "Yes, I do tend to forget that you have a slightly more than average intelligence. So, what does it matter that an alcoholic unfit sixty five year old has a cardiac problem?" The question was as nonchalant as the man's posture.

"A great deal to those oligarchs who are running the country behind his back, and also to you. Your little cabal stands to gain from keeping that fact quiet for as long as it takes to clean out the Kremlin's coffers."

There was a smirk that disturbed Mycroft because it looked too similar to one he'd seen this morning on Sherlock's face. But the man then shattered the image of the mother they shared by asking "And why do you think I have anything to gain from what might or might not be going on in Moscow?"

Mycroft's deductions were based on the slenderest threads of evidence, but he could not allow Ford to know that. "I know what you did at Davos. I know about Berezovsky. I know about it all."

"You're bluffing. What proof do you have of this little fairy tale of yours?"

This was the weakness in Mycroft's gambit, but he'd learned to hide things over the past few years. Being around Ford had elevated his need to do so, but Ford was not Sherlock. His elder sibling's skills were not about deducing the truth from what people were thinking but not saying. Ford's talents lay in drawing connections that other people missed, in being able to pursue a dozen different agendas, whilst keeping his own interests at heart. The man liked to _win—_ to use power for power's sake. Mycroft was counting on that fact.

"Wouldn't you like to know… but, again, don't think I am stupid enough to tell you."

That got him a sardonic smile. "Well, then you really are stupid. Without proof, what's stopping me from moving up the timetable? Ours is a hazardous occupation, so you could meet an untimely death—some hitman sent by aggrieved drug lord you inconvenienced in Mexico."

The older man leaned back on the desk with a smile. "Lord Fitzroy Ford, Viscount of Sherringford…that has a certain ring to it, don't you think?"

"I've left contingency plans. Just like you. Any precipitate move on your part will bring down your house of cards."

Ford snorted. "Alright—let's stop playing. The fact that we are having this conversation in private means that you want something in exchange. Let's have it; I don't have all day."

"The explanation of what happened in Moscow on the 19th of June and the evidence of your role are in safe places. Notice the plural. If something happens to me, it becomes public."

Ford shrugged. "The facts are bound to come out sooner or later; it's likely that Boris will need surgery— and that is hard to keep quiet. The story will get the oxygen of publicity sometime this autumn."

Mycroft shook his head. "That isn't the issue. It's your role, your links to the Davos Four, their cronies, including Berezovsky, which are the problem for you. If all that becomes known by the right people, then you'll have to cut and run. My assessment is that you are too greedy, too sure of winning even more to risk that. So, you will agree to my conditions in return for my continuing silence."

Ford gave a slightly bored look. "Conditions? Oh, do tell."

"Sherlock. He's off to Cambridge at the end of next month. You're to leave him alone. No contact, no attempts to undermine him. If I detect the slightest movement by you in his direction, I will release that information."

Ford's eyes hardened. "You'd lose, too— I'd just go public with what I have on you, and your cretinous little brother. You'd find the credibility of your charges against me to be somewhat undermined if they are issued by someone facing trial for murder."

Mycroft laughed. "Don't think for one moment that I'd be stupid enough to link the information and the evidence to me. No matter how much damage you manage to inflict on me, you'll still end up in prison—or on the run to Russia. It's called Mutually Assured Destruction— it's been enough to keep the Cold War from becoming a hot conflict. And it can do the same for ours."

Ford looked down at his fingernails, as if suggesting that the whole conversation was unimportant. "A stand-off then."

"Exactly."

"I can wait." He shrugged. "It's a deal. Your little brother will self-destruct at university with or without my help. You're still mine, and you will do what I want you to do. Use that persuasive turn of phrase, your insider knowledge to get my policies into the right people's ears. That's non-negotiable."

Mycroft reluctantly nodded. He didn't expect anything else.

Ford pointed toward the door. "Now go, and let me get back to what I was doing before you so rudely interrupted."

Once he was out on the street again, Mycroft slipped his jacket off. The afternoon heat was unbearable, and he decided he'd call the townhouse and get Stimpson to pick him up, since the Bentley was blissfully air-conditioned.

As soon as he turned his phone back on, it buzzed in his hand.

"Hello?"

"Sir, we have a problem."

Mycroft recognised the voice; it was Forton, the Research Associates man who had been given the afternoon off because Sherlock was with Mycroft. "What's happened?"

"The chauffeur says your brother never showed up. When he went into the shop about a half hour after you told him to wait, the barber said your brother left shortly after you did, saying he was walking home, so Stimpson returned to the townhouse. He tried to call you, but your phone wasn't on. It only takes a half hour at most to walk from Mayfair to Belgravia, so he contacted us when he couldn't get an answer from you. I'm sorry sir, I tried to pick up the trail, but it's gone cold. We can't get a trace on him either. Your housekeeper thinks he took the phone, but he's not turned it on yet."

It was too soon; Ford could not have arranged a snatch in the ten minutes he'd had since Mycroft had done the deal at the Diogenes Club. Nor would Ford have tried, knowing the consequences would be to bring the whole house of cards down around his own head. In a flash, Mycroft suddenly realised that Sherlock's insistence on the Research Associates men standing down was all part of a plan. Mycroft had been manipulated this afternoon alright, but not by Ford. This was his little brother's escape plan, and it could not have come at a worse time.

_Sherlock, what have you done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first part of the chapter:  
*The first time his database is mentioned is in Chapter One of Musgrave Blaze; Dr Donna Foreman's role in it is mentioned in Pocket Full of Rye, in the Got My Eye on You series  
**Palynology= forensic botany  
For the second part of the chapter:  
*There is a reason why Mycroft's tailor is New & Lingwood of Jermyn Street. Since 1865 New & Lingwood has proudly outfitted the students of Eton College.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A jar of krypton looks to the human eye exactly the same as a jar of air- but it isn't. It is also a little known fact that krypton is often used as a substitute for other noble gases in coloured gas discharge tubes, because when the gas's electrons are excited by an electrical charge, it alone produces a white light. Tubes of Krypton are then simply painted or stained in other ways to allow the desired colour. This is most common in advertising signs where the letters formed by the tube appear to be differing colours- the krypton is "hiding" in plain sight, mistaken for its noble gas cousin, neon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, a bit of backstory....

"Are you always this boring?"

Mycroft closes his eyes at the barbed comment. He's been looking forward to the chance to have a quiet supper at the townhouse, but the presence of a petulant teenager is destroying any hope of respite. He is trying to settle his stomach, but Sherlock's constant harassment ever since he'd walked in the door makes digestion difficult. After the day Mycroft had just endured, his dining companion's acid tone is adding so much bile to the mixture churning in his stomach that he wonders if he is going to have to make his way to the small cloakroom on this floor, because he is beginning to feel very nauseated indeed.

Before he can make up his mind, Mycroft watches his brother push his own plate away, its contents barely touched. Miss Forester had produced a simple omelette. The freshness of the eggs means that the outside has a lovely hint of golden brown, but the inside was still fluffy, light and moist. The taste of the egg is exquisitely balanced with a richer filling of mushrooms and fresh herbs cooked in butter. The glass of a premier cru Chablis sitting by Mycroft's plate was perfectly chilled when it was poured. It was her formula to ease the cares of a stressful day, but tonight it failed to answer his needs.

Sherlock takes his silence as a challenge. "If you are an example of what life is like in the world of work, I think I'm going to give it a miss."

Mycroft sighs. "You're not even at university yet, Sherlock. Don't start making assumptions. I've had a positively horrible day. And I do not intend ending it with a verbal sparring match with you." He takes a sip of the wine. Sherlock had not been offered any. Technically underage, the real reason for not giving him any alcohol was that he is supposed to be taking antidepressants supplied by Doctor Cohen. That said, Mycroft knows that the packet was still unopened, which might help to explain why Sherlock seems perpetually wound up tighter than a clock spring, spoiling for a fight.

The object of these deductions mutters, "You're no fun."

"I never said I was, brother mine. Go amuse yourself with whatever it is that teenagers amuse themselves with these days."

Sherlock snorts. "Yes, well, I'd _love_ to go out and get stoned, then head for a club and dance all night, but somehow I don't think you're going to let me do that."

Wearily, Mycroft puts his own knife and fork down and pushes his half- finished omelette aside. He looks across the glass table in the kitchen annex at the bouncing leg, the restless fingers and assesses the degree to which his brother's anxiety had ratcheted up another few notches during the day while he has been at work.

Blandly, he offers, "Perhaps if you took the drug that was actually prescribed for you, you wouldn't be in the state you're in."

"I'm not in a _state. _I'm bored and tired of being cooped up in this place."

"You can leave, so long as you are accompanied, to an agreed destination. That's the rule."

"I don't need an escort. The stooges you've hired to keep me under guard are useless."

Despite the recent mysterious disappearance of their CEO, two Research Associates investigators were in position at the front and rear of the townhouse, with clear instructions to accompany Sherlock whenever he left South Eaton Place. And those occasions had to be agreed in advance with Mycroft. He knew that the enforced leisure would probably drive Sherlock stir-crazy, but he had no choice; he was not prepared to risk Sherlock's life- with either self-inflicted dangers or those that might come from Fitzroy Ford.

"No impromptu excursions, brother mine. It's nose to the grindstone for you until September." Calmly, the elder Holmes takes in the sulky scowl this instruction raised on the boy's face. "You need to spend the next six weeks studying, or you won't be going to Cambridge. If you break the rule of sobriety or if you leave the house without your escort, then I will be forced to send you back to the Priory, and admit that Doctor Cohen was right when she said it was too early for you to be released."

For just the briefest of moments, the white heat of rage burns in Sherlock's eyes. If looks could kill, Mycroft would have just died. Then it's gone, camouflaged again. But there is just the tiniest trace of sarcastic acid left to fuel the comment that follows: "So, you'd happily send me back to a place where I was nearly murdered."

"Don't be so dramatic." Mycroft takes another sip of the wine, washing down the lingering taste of egg that now seems to stick in his throat.

Again, the anger blazed. "Don't _lie_, Mycroft. I know what it was; I just don't know why. And you keeping me here under guard is not my idea of how I want to spend my summer holidays."

As another spasm seizes his gut, Mycroft wonders if he might be getting an ulcer. "It's not a holiday. You have not used your brain properly for almost ten months. God knows how many brain cells you've destroyed with drugs along the way in your little gap year adventure. Doctor Cohen is quite right that you need to re-learn the disciplined routine of studying if you are to ever hope of making a go at university."

"Boring."

The acidic wine arrives in his stomach, forcing Mycroft to ride a wave of nausea. He manages to avoid altering his calm expression, glad that he has managed to hide both his turmoil and its cause from Sherlock. Boring is an epithet he is happy to hide behind. His brother is right about the lie, of course, but there is no way on earth he could tell Sherlock that he has a half-brother he's never known, someone who was responsible for getting him hooked on drugs and then sexually abused, that the man the boy had killed to escape that abuse had been set the task of destroying him by that same half-brother. It is such a preposterous tale that at times even Mycroft wants to shout "unbelievable".

In truth, it is the exact opposite of boring- it is simply terrifying.

Mycroft has copies of the evidence in his safe in the study: the four photographs and the recording, together with the blackmail threat related to the death of Stephen Mason, and the fact that a syringe existed with Sherlock's fingerprints on it that had been used to administer the fatal overdose. If he does not do Ford's bidding, the evidence would be released and his brother's life ruined. That threat had brought Mycroft under Ford's thumb.*

If he'd been able to tell Sherlock the next instalment of the preposterous story, he'd have to admit that now Mycroft himself was equally vulnerable. In trying to protect his baby brother, he'd been stupid enough to embark on a dangerous game of trying to get enough evidence against Ford to be able to fight back. It had all gone wrong, and the death of three men in a second floor flat in North Finchley had handed Ford the means to destroy Mycroft as well as Sherlock.** To emphasise his victory, the bastard Ford had put him to work in his own department at the Security & Intelligence Liaison service, twisting his talents to serve the needs of someone who didn't give a fig about Queen and Country.

Mycroft's belief that he is hiding his problem is shaken to the core when Sherlock suddenly scowls at him. "Why are you so grumpy? You look like you've been sucking on a lemon. The spy business getting too stressful for you?"

"I am not _grumpy_. And for the hundredth time, I am not a _spy._ I am a minor official in the British Government. Think of it as a glorified research analyst in an obscure Government transport department."

Sherlock sniggers. "So, how are things on the Gulag these days?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about." But, no sooner is the lie out of his mouth than Sherlock's smile broadens.

"Ooh…I've scored a direct hit; so it's the _Russians_ who are making you grumpy. I thought I'd have to fish around a bit before I got lucky. Remember when we used to play battleship?"

Of course, he remembered. It was five years ago that they'd spent almost a month playing the game every day. That summer, after Sherlock had been released from Kings Court, Mycroft struggled to find ways to bring his brother out of the shell that had been created by seven months' confinement in an institution. Battleship became a way to communicate non-verbally with a boy who had not spoken for months. At first, his brother just wrote his guesses about the squares- just a box co-ordinate. Slowly over the month, he started saying the co-ordinates without fretting, and then at the end he was talking again. Mycroft used the game to teach Sherlock how to deduce things from an opponent's body language, using logic and visual clues to determine how close his guessing was getting to the target. His baby brother had proved quite an adept pupil. In the end, Mycroft had to resort to the same tactics of hiding his reactions that he used only in the most challenging of environments.

The memory does nothing to improve his temperament. "You're too old to play games, Sherlock. Go bury your head in a chemistry textbook and let me have some time to myself."

"Suit yourself", Sherlock shoves his chair back and gracefully exits the room, his grin telling Mycroft that he has not been fooled.

_Bulls-eye_. Mycroft knows it was a guess, because he's been utterly scrupulous about keeping his papers away from his brother's prying eyes, but it suggests that he is not winning in his attempts to hide his reactions from his brother. It also annoys Mycroft exceedingly that the smug grin of triumph on Sherlock's face reminds him of the one that Fitzroy Ford had flashed at him that very afternoon.

"I didn't ask you for your opinion, Holmes. I just need you to write the report according to the brief I gave you. Re-write it by tomorrow, close of play."

Mycroft's rage at Ford's peremptory demand did not surface in his placid expression, as the man walked away from his desk. The first draft of the report on the latest situation in Russia's Presidential elections had taken him more than four days to produce, and it had just been flung back across his desk, rejected as not fulfilling the task that Ford wanted it to perform. One thing that Mycroft has learned in the past month of working for his half-brother- the man is determined to pursue his own agenda, no matter what the facts are or the cost to British national interests.

Despite his dyspepsia, Mycroft decides that if he is to meet Ford's deadline, he can no longer afford to ignore what is waiting for him in his safe in the study. Ten minutes after downing an antacid tablet, he opens his draft report, and thumbs through the pages, starting to digest the margin comments in turquoise ink and the various passages struck through in dismissal.

Mycroft's draft was based on the fact that Yeltsin was a busted flush doomed to lose, and it was time to cosy up to the likely next president, Gennady Zyuganov. Although he had the backing of the Communist Party, Zuyganov had built a broader based coalition and broken with the more extreme economic policies that threatened re-nationalisation of the recently privatised state companies.

Mycroft's struggles to understand why Ford did not agree are further complicated when he has to tune out the sound of Sherlock upstairs playing something appalling on his violin. He did not recognise it—not even an avant-garde composer could have produced such screeching. It was probably just random noise, designed to irritate him.

What was Ford up to? When Zuyganov had gone to Davos in February, he'd been courted by Western leaders queuing up to convince him about the virtues of working with the West. Mycroft's draft had drawn together the threads of first impressions into a coherent whole that could convince the British Prime Minister this former Communist was a man with whom he could do business. Certainly Yeltsin's performance last December in parliamentary elections showed he was on the way out; Viktor Chernomyrdin's party, the only one identified clearly with Yeltsin, won less than ten per cent of the vote. As Yeltsin's presidency was going to end in disaster, it made sense for the British Government to cultivate relations with the next likely government. That was the 'received wisdom', and Mycroft's report had been backed up by the evidence gathered by Western intelligence services.

That belief had been shaken a bit two days ago when to every one's surprise, Yeltsin had managed to squeak enough votes to force a second round of voting. But, this time, it would just be a straight choice between him and Zyuganov. With the second round only three weeks away on the 3rd of July, now the British Prime Minister wanted someone to tell him who was going to win. The Strategic Department in the S&IL Service said Zuyganov; but Ford wanted his Operational Department to back Yeltsin—and he wanted Mycroft to write the convincing report.

His focus is so tight on the text that for a moment, he fails to register the fact that Sherlock has started another piece of music. When it finally does intrude into his thoughts, he realizes it's one that he recognises: _Fratres_, by Arvo Part—devilishly difficult to play. The piece begins with a violin solo that can only be described as frenetically angry, until the piano comes in with a crashing chord to call a halt to the frenzy and calm the violin down. He remembers playing it once with Sherlock, and the memory pushes aside all thoughts of Russia. His chest tightens in distress, as he fills in the piano line in his head, to join the notes Sherlock is playing on his violin. His eyes prickle and he swallows reflexively, now painfully reminded that Sherlock would not be alive to play this, if Ford's plot to kill him had succeeded. The lines of text blur.

He blinks to clear his eyes and uses anger to do the same to his concentration. To escape the nightmare he is in will take years of meticulous planning, and he has no time to indulge in sentimentality. _One step at a time- _and that means understanding just what he is being asked to do by his bastard half-brother. Ford's mind is brilliant, of that Mycroft has no doubt. But, he needs Mycroft's ability to write, to persuade, to put together the argument that would carry exactly the right weight to change hearts and minds of just the right people. This is Mycroft's gift. If he is going to be _used_ in this way, then he must understand the significance of what Ford is doing.

Mycroft's original assessment in the report was that popular opinion would give the election to Zyuganov. In his view, Yeltsin just didn't have the resources to buy or coerce election fraud on the scale needed to win.

The margin note showed his half-brother did not agree. "Crap—change this. He has resources you don't know about."

That comment makes Mycroft wonder how Ford knows. Does he have an inside line to "the Family", as Yeltsin's inner circle was called? The Davos meeting had also been attended by four Russian oligarchs who had profited the most from Yeltsin's privatisation and market reforms: Mikhail Khodokovsky of Yukos Oil, the two "Vlads"- Vladmir Vinogradov of Inkombank and Vladimer Gusinsky, who owned vast swatches of Russia's Media- and last, but not least, Boris Berezovsky*. And Mycroft knew that Ford had also attended Davos. Not for the first time, Mycroft begins to suspect that Ford is playing some private game in Russia and elsewhere, using the S&IL service to bolster his own resources- perhaps through dubious connections with this dubious quartet.

_What is it that I am not seeing?_ He jots down some notes of his own. _Check out Vladimir Potanin, Alexander Smolensky and Mikhail Fridman._ If one put 'the Davos Four' together with these three men, a huge chunk of the Russian mining, banking and investment groups' wealth would be concentrated in just seven pairs of hands. If more than half of the top ten richest men in Russia were willing to bankroll something dramatic at the last minute for Yeltsin, it could make enough of a difference.

But it would be surprising if they were convinced that there was still life in the man. Mycroft thought about it for a moment, and then scrawled under his list of three names _NB- any meetings w/Berezovsky? _If he could find tangible evidence that Ford knew more than the combined forces of CIA and MI6 intelligence, then that would be interesting indeed. For good measure, he then noted, _Check AC's movements last four days._ The First Deputy Prime Minister, Anatoly Chubais was in charge of Yeltsin's re-election campaign; if he was anywhere near the men who controlled over $20 billion worth of Russia's economy, then perhaps Ford was being more prescient than he had given him credit for.

On second thought, Mycroft wrote something underneath his first comment. _Where's Korshakov? _Yeltsin's bodyguard, a former KGB officer was more minder and confidant than one might expect—he was always in the man's company, and rumoured to be more influential in the Kremlin's decision-making than anyone else. Korshakov had not been seen in public since the first round results press conference, two days ago.

_Something is going on here._ He opens his laptop and begins re-writing his report. At some point, Sherlock swaps Arvo Part for Vivaldi, and Mycroft finds it a soundtrack that is more conducive to his re-writing than Estonian minimalism.

By the time the violin practice upstairs ends at just past midnight, Mycroft has completely changed the tenor of his recommendations. Yeltsin and his immediate entourage might well be losers in the realm of popular opinion, but his report now highlights the fact that the real powers that be in Russia have decided another five years of market reforms are just what the oligarchs need to finish their subversion of the Russian economy. An inept and increasingly isolated President is in fact just what they want—and they will do _anything_ to make that happen.

What Mycroft had originally thought Ford was doing—forcing a rewrite just to demonstrate his power over him—he now realises goes much deeper. Ford needs Mycroft's skills of political writing to make it into something actually palatable to the British.

Mycroft finishes his report with the assessment that whatever it takes to keep Yeltsin in power would be spent by the "Davos Four plus three", and it would therefore be pragmatic for the British Government to be first in line to congratulate him on his inevitable victory even before the third of July. While the Americans and other Western governments stood aloof and made overtures to his opponent, Britain would benefit by being seen to back Yeltsin before the vote on the 3rd of July.

In a moment of inspiration, Mycroft realised that Ford's access to information denied to most Western intelligence services could also be re-purposed into something that would benefit British interests. Channelled this way, he just might be able to turn Ford's evil brilliance into something other than what the man intended it to be.

_Wheels within wheels. _In the space of a single night Mycroft saw in those margin comments that Fitzroy Ford's personal ambition extended far beyond what was legitimate; there was a heavy whiff of corruption in these links of his to the Russian oligarchy, with which he was pursuing his own agenda. Investigating those links would be the start of a dossier with which to convict him. Those turquoise jottings might not be treasonous on their own, but they are clear evidence of the man's true colours.

Mycroft opens a new manila folder on his desk and slips in the marked sheets of his report. It's a start; if he could gather circumstantial evidence in enough quantity, it might prove to be decisive in the long run.

He starts to create a new file on his laptop, but when the box prompts him to name the file, he cancels the action. Electronic files can be hacked, and he wants to leave nothing to chance. Mycroft fishes in the desk drawer and removes a small black moleskin notebook, still wrapped in cellophane. It had been given to him by his mother the year before she died, but he'd never needed to write anything down before, given his near eidetic memory. He had always wondered why she had given it to him.

Now he knows why. It has only taken him seven years to realise that she would have wanted him to write things in the notebook so that his little brother might someday read them. In this case, he wonders how very prescient she had been. Should her first-born bastard son Ford decide to do something drastic to him, Mycroft needs to leave enough of a paper trail that whoever might investigate his death would know where to point the finger. Should Sherlock survive him, he had the right to know, too. At that stage, preserving the lie that has protected his little brother for years would no longer be sensible—and this notebook would be the proof of that.

oOoOoOoOo

"Losing one Russian oligarch in London is excusable, having two murdered is a misfortune, but _three_? That must be a calamity. You really are losing control, Mycroft."

It was exceedingly rare these days for John to be around when Sherlock indulged in his favourite pastime of brother-baiting. But, when he turned up at Baker Street one early evening in April, the doctor overheard the snarky comment as he walked in on a familiar scene.

Sherlock was in his usual chair, violin in his lap, his bow held like some defensive weapon. Mycroft was sitting in what John still thought of as "his" chair, even though he had not occupied it for the past three years.

Mycroft broke off his staring match with Sherlock to glance at John and give one of his patrician smiles. "Good evening, Doctor. And what pries you away from domestic bliss for a brief visit into this disaster zone?"

John heard the slight barb in the comment, but knew it was aimed more at Sherlock than at him. John pulled a chair out from the table and sat it in the middle of the room, facing the two Holmes brothers.

"I'm escaping the discussions going on between Mary and the bridesmaids about her hen party. Don't mind me; I enjoy watching a bit of sibling fisticuffs." He didn't hide his smile. "Which Russian oligarchs?"

"Alexander Litvenenko died of polonium poisoning. Then Alexander Perepilichny died in November 2012, collapsing while running, near his Surrey home. Then Boris Berezovsky in 2013 apparently killed himself- which we both proved to be false."

"I remember the first one- in all the papers. And I can't forget the last one, given you dragged me to Sunningdale to investigate the crime scene…"

"To which he was _not _invited. Nor you. Doctor Watson," Mycroft commented.

John continued his line of thought, unaffected by Mycroft's interjection. "But the middle one- who's he?"

Sherlock smiled rather wolfishly, "a body that everyone, including Mycroft, must have thought to be safely dead and buried. Only his death, his _murder_, has just been resurrected. And embarrassingly so. There's likely to be an inquest."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "No, there isn't. Perepilichny was a currency trader. Yes, he was Russian. He came to London when he lost a lot of money – his client's money- in the crash of 2008. Presumably he needed a fresh start, like so many other bankers around the world."

John turned his head back towards Sherlock- it was like watching a tennis match, an exchange of thundering serves, forehand returns and overhead smashes. He'd forgotten how much he used to enjoy these sessions.

Sherlock lobbed one back at his brother. "Only this one just happened to be informing the British security services all about Russia's biggest ever currency scam and tax fraud case. A former employee of Hermitage Capital Management who was known to have passed over documents relating to a one hundred and fifty million pound money laundering deal by a couple of Russian tax officials working on behalf of private interests. If that isn't motive for an assassination, I don't know what it is."

"As ever, brother mine, you do so _love_ to exaggerate."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Exaggerate? That scam was only the tip of the iceberg. When he was in Moscow, Perepilichny was also a key witness to how HCM moved over seven million euros to Swiss bank accounts to fuel a buying spree of luxury properties- many of which are in London. Mycroft- have you any new neighbours on South Eaton Place? Russians by any chance?"

Another swish of the violin bow, and Sherlock was off again. "There were over sixty Russian officials implicated in that little exercise- but Putin's friends in high places quashed all attempts to bring them to justice. And when the HCM lawyer who discovered the fraud gets hauled off to prison and beaten to death, Perepilichny panics, flees Moscow and comes to London with his wife and two kids to try to protect them. Your 'modest currency trader' rented a house in a gated community of St George's Hill in Surrey, paying over £12,000 a month for the privilege of hiding behind electronic gates, closed circuit cameras and private security patrols."

Mycroft rallied. "He died of a suspected heart attack when jogging. It happens- overweight and over-stressed traders who smoke and drink too much do it all the time."

"That's what the papers conveniently said at the time he died in 2012; did you have a quiet word with your friends in the media?"

"The Surrey constabulary confirmed it, Sherlock. You do so love to paint a colourful story. Sorry, but this one is just plain black and white. There was an autopsy- in fact, _two_ autopsies which revealed nothing suspicious. Case closed."

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and continued swishing his bow theatrically. "No, Mycroft. What the post mortem tests showed was _no apparent cause_ of death- no heart attack. That's suspicious in itself. It certainly aroused the suspicions of the insurance company that wrote his three and a half million pound life policy three months before he died."

"The death certificate said arrhythmia." Mycroft was sticking to the base line.

This time it was John who snorted. "Yeah- that's the catch all when the real cause isn't known. We're not allowed to write in cardiac arrest, because it's self-evident- everyone's heart stops when they are dead."

Sherlock's smirk matched John's. "Which is why the insurance company requested yet another expert opinion, this time from someone who really is an expert. Rather inconvenient of them to do so." There was a look of positive glee on his face.

"Inconvenient, I will concede the point, although we haven't been able to find who suggested to them that Dr Simmonds should be consulted." Mycroft's face betrayed dawning suspicion.

While Sherlock just smirked, John asked the obvious question, "Who's he?"

Sherlock answered, "She, not he- Professor Monique Simmonds, of Key Gardens, world-renowned expert in toxic plants."

Mycroft looked pained, but didn't add anything.

Sensing his advantage, Sherlock pressed home the point. "…who is rumoured to have discovered in Peripilichny's system the presence of _gelsemium elegans_, also known as heartbreak grass. A highly toxic flowering plant belonging to the Gelsemiaceae family. It's been around a while- Linnaeus wrote about it in 1753 and Wormley identified the toxin involved in 1870. The paralytic alkaloid attaches to glycine receptors in the central nervous system, which tell the brain to relax muscular tissue. In the Russian's case, his heart was told to relax to the point of no longer beating."

"Speculation." Mycroft's dismissal was clear.

"Oh, I suppose it's _speculation_ that his passport shows he was in Paris the day before he died- a trip that his wife and business colleagues knew nothing about? _Speculation _that he booked not one but two different hotels in Paris, in the hope of keeping his whereabouts secret? And what about the secret meetings he was forced to attend in Geneva, six months before he died? Or the meeting at Heathrow last May; he was seen talking to Russian agents at a café in Terminal Five? He was blackmailed into attending these by Russians working for a _bratva_; if he didn't show up, they'd get the authorities to issue proceedings against him in Moscow."

Now Mycroft scowled. "You seem remarkably well-informed, Sherlock. The Perepilichny family have declared that there is no evidence of poison; the tests have neither proved nor disproved your theory. The Surrey police have not made anyone aware of the files regarding Mister Perepilichny's dealings with the security services- nor will they ever do so, even if the proceedings were moved to a formal inquest. There is a reason why the PII exists."

John raised an eyebrow to Sherlock in a silent query.

"PII, Public Interest Immunity- as in, not in Mycroft's interest to make any of this public."

Wearily, the older Holmes sighed. "It's not about me, Sherlock- it's in the British Government's interest to keep this out of the public eye. The investigations of the Counter-Terrorism Command, Special Branch or the Serious and Organised Crime Agency should not be compromised. How do _you_ know about this case? You were off on your little gap year adventure at the time."

Sherlock laughed. "Sorry, but I couldn't resist. The tip off to the insurance company came from Lars Sigursson- one of his last acts before getting caught in Serbia. Let's just say I have a professional interest in gelsemium; I've used it myself.** I came across another example of its effectiveness in China. While I was there, a millionaire tycoon called Long Liyuan was assassinated in Guangdong, given the poison in a restaurant meal. It was a contract organised by one of the Russian bratva, pissed off at his interference in the Harbin hacking community." He paused for a moment, as if bringing up his time in the prison cell in Harbin brought back a painful memory.

Sherlock swallowed, took a deep breath and charged the net. "So, I know that it's a technique used by the FSB- after all, they're virtually a privatised accessory to Putin's circle of _friends_ these days. Either that, or the bratvas have been doing a bit of freelance work- after all, four of their enforcers linked to the original tax scam in Moscow have died under 'mysterious circumstances'." Sherlock did the air quote gesture, just to ratchet up the pressure on Mycroft.

Mycroft's face hardened. "This is a cease and desist order, Sherlock. Keep your nose out of things that do not concern you."

"Oh, so you're extending your no fly zone, are you? Expanding your sphere of influence to include Moscow as well as Tbilisi these days? You seem to be building a right little empire behind this little iron curtain of yours, Mycroft. Just what are you up to?"

"None of your business, brother mine. This is out of bounds for you. Go play somewhere else."

John found himself wondering whether Mycroft was trying to protect Sherlock from something that just might prove as toxic a case as Moriarty had been. If he was, then John seconded the motion. There'd been too many consequences to that investigation, enough to last both him and Sherlock a lifetime. But, he also knew Sherlock; an order like that one was like an engraved invitation to ignore it. It had never worked before; surely Mycroft knew that?

True to form, Sherlock was unwilling to let it go. "First Georgians, now Russians. Who are you protecting, Mycroft?"

Mycroft got to his feet and picked up his umbrella. "You… from your own stupidity. John, don't you two have a wedding to plan?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first part of the chapter:   
*This is covered in Periodic Tales, Chapter 34 (Holmium Part Three) and in Ex Files (Chapter 43, Extort).  
** Covered in Periodic Tales Chapter 41 (Sodium Part Four), and Chapters 42 through 45 (Potassium)
> 
> For the Second part of the chapter:  
* Boris Berezovsky died in London in 2013, in an apparent suicide. However, there were enough suspicious circumstances to his death for the inquest a year later to return an "open" verdict. Sherlock and John's role in this is covered in Periodic Tales, Chapter 27 Polonium.  
**In Collateral Damage, Sherlock manufactured "a fast acting cardiac paralytic" which he used in self defence against his Russian captor. Gelsemium elegans would be the perfect source – far more effective than digitalis. He could obtain the source material from which to distil his poison from a herbalist in London's Chinatown, because Gelsemium elegans is used in tiny dilute doses as a remedy for asthma, migraine and malaria. He has more than enough nooks and crannies in Baker Street in which to hide toxic seeds and plant materials.  
***The Perepilichny case is real. The pre-inquest hearing at the Woking Coronors' Court was finally held in January 2016, a week after the Litvenenko inquiry released its findings. Lawyers representing HMC have requested that the inquest be moved to the High Court in London, in light of the links between it and the Litvenenko case. The Surrey Police are filing PII applications for 45 files to be excluded, all from the security services, a move denounced as a cover-up. On the 29th of February the inquest was "unexpectedly" postponed. As of May 2016, it has not yet convened. Perhaps Mycroft is working his magic?
> 
> An Interesting Co-incidence: In 1879, a nineteen year old medical student wrote an article for a British medical journal describing how he administering himself small but increasing amounts of gelsemium over a seven day period. The first dose gave him diarrhoea and 'general lassitude', but he increased the dose until he could not stand the ill effects, suffering from "great depression and a severe frontal headache. The pulse was still normal, but weak." His name was Arthur Conan Doyle. Aren't we all very lucky that he knew when to stop?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To commemorate the 70th anniversary of the publication of Superman by DC Comics, the University of Leicester presented the Geological Society with "mock kryptonite", which was a form of Krypton difluoride. The material in the Superman stories is a radioactive, glowing green ore from Superman's home planet, called Krypton. The established premise is that Superman is susceptible to its radiation while Earth's human inhabitants are not, which has created its popular culture usage as a reference to an individual's hidden weaknesses and vulnerability, irrespective of its effects on other people. Alas, the Holmes brothers have secrets that are just as damaging to their health as kyptonite.

"Sir, the test results are back."

Mycroft looked up at Ketavan. She was good at masking her innermost thoughts— years of service in his company had clearly taught her something. But, he could still see ambiguity and uncertainty in her posture. So, the results must be confusing to her, and that added another layer of anxiety onto his shoulders.

The severed skeleton hand from the bomb hoax nine days ago had clearly not been a priority for the Met's CTC; the bomb squad's excitement always fizzled out when a suspect package was not actually explosive or poisonous, so the DNA identification of the bones were not deemed a priority. Mycroft would have preferred to have had the tests done by his service, because for him, the identity was an important part of what his half-brother had sent him. And the results would have been kept private. Unfortunately, the police had become involved. But to cause too much fuss would have raised suspicions that Mycroft preferred to keep hidden.

The hand bones in the box had been shaped to form a rude gesture, with the addition of a turquoise thread wrapped around the single extended digit. The message from Ford was clear, but until Mycroft knew whose hand it was, the full meaning had not yet been delivered.

He took the slim file she offered, and read quickly. The fourth to the sixth paragraphs contained the important points.

_A successful extraction of DNA was obtained from the bones. The DNA has not been identified in terms of a named individual, but a match has been made with a sample taken from a crime scene in May 1996, located in North Finchley. On the 23rd of that month, the police were called to investigate at 27 Woodside Park Road, where the landlord had discovered large blood stains on the floor and carpets of a flat. The flat was rented by Mr. Clifford Ackroyd, who was believed to have emigrated to Brazil, but no record of his arrival in the country has been found._

_A sample of his DNA taken at the time confirmed that one of the blood pools was his, which formed the basis of the subsequent homicide investigation. The DNA examination done this week shows that the hand bones do not match the DNA of Mr Ackroyd, but do match the DNA of one of the other three unidentified blood samples taken at the crime scene._

_Given that the National DNA Database was only set up in that year, the number of records was much smaller than at present. The case was closed in 1999, when no further evidence leading to a possible prosecution had been found. We are considering whether to re-open the case in light of the new evidence found in the box sent to Number 7, Carlton Terrace._

Ketavan's discomfort could no longer be contained. "The commander of the CTC investigation team would like a word with you, sir, to see if you can shed any light on the identity of the victim."

Mycroft drew a breath. "I'm sure he would."

_So, it begins._ The hand was either that of Philip Ranger, the CEO of Research Associates, or Euan Jenkins, a private detective who had been hired by Ford to organise the assault on Sherlock at the Priory. Whatever Ford had done with their bodies along with that of Clifford Ackroyd, he obviously still had access to at least one of them. Or perhaps he had just taken souvenirs. It was likely that the third unidentified blood sample was from Mycroft. Ford had hit him with the pistol he'd used to kill Jenkins, giving him a mild concussion and a gash on his temple. He would have wanted to leave the blood evidence, knowing that the service would protect Mycroft's identity- until Ford chose otherwise.

Mycroft had thought the threat of that disclosure safely contained in a cell in Tbilisi, but now knew that his bastard half-brother had been loose for at least two years, maybe even three. _Plenty of time to plan his revenge._

Ketavan was waiting for instructions.

"Get me the Commissioner on the phone."

Ninety minutes later, Mycroft had spent some considerable personal capital making sure that both the Metropolitan Police Commissioner and the Commander of the Counter Terrorism Command were in no doubt that it was not in the public interest to continue the investigation. What had happened nearly two decades ago had been dealt with by a higher authority than theirs, and the culprit had been dealt with, albeit outside the English judicial system. He thanked them for their efforts regarding his private office and the information regarding the package, while assuring them that there was no further investigation warranted, at least not under their jurisdiction.

He left New Scotland Yard in a foul mood. He _hated_ having to resort to such a naked display of his authority and power. It would not become public, of course, but the facts about Ford's escape were now known by an inner circle of people that he would have preferred to keep in the dark. The Parliamentary Scrutiny Committee would need to be informed of his being at large, if they had not already drawn the obvious conclusion based on the information that would have found its way to them through sources such as the DG of MI5. Mycroft would have preferred to sit on the information for longer than the ten days he'd had since his trip to Tbilisi. But, perhaps for that very reason, Ford had used this flamboyant gesture to force his hand.

No sooner had he thought this than his phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he recognised Elizabeth ffoukes' private line.

"Hello, Elizabeth." He tried to disguise the weariness in his voice.

She dispensed with any pleasantries, and went straight for it. "Is it true? Has he actually been free all this time and we didn't know?"

"I am afraid so."

"Fucking hell."

"Crudely put, but perhaps appropriate under the circumstances."

"And the bomb hoax at the Diogenes? His declaration of war?"

"Indubitably."

"The timing worries me. If he got out three and a bit years ago, is it conceivable that he was the one who hired Moriarty to take you on?"

"The thought has occurred to me, but I have no evidence." It was true. Moriarty had been a person of interest to the intelligence services of thirty two countries, but no one had really understood why the Irishman chose to take such a determined interest in Mycroft- and then by extension, Sherlock. The man's motives— his willingness to risk so much by coming out from the shadows where he usually operated- well, Mycroft had always wondered. _Why me, why us?_ Being prompted to do so by Ford would have been a possible explanation.

"Christ, Mycroft. Watch your back, will you? Can I do anything to help?"

"Do your best to locate him, my dear. I am trying to do the same, but I am afraid that it is all hands on deck."

"Any ideas on where to start?"

"I am investigating all medical facilities and ENT surgical teams capable of doing a vocal cord transplant."

"Sensible. Yes…he is vain enough to want to recover what you took away from him."

"Practical, too. He'd find revenge more enjoyable if he had a voice with which to gloat."

There was a brief hesitation, then Elizabeth asked, "Does Sherlock know?"

"No. And the conditions I set when Ford was extradited still apply, Elizabeth. Under no circumstances is Sherlock to be told, not by anyone." Mycroft put every ounce of authority in his tone.

"Is that really wise? Two of you fighting on the same side would be hard to beat."

"No, absolutely not. Do not presume that I would tolerate any betrayal of trust on this matter. No one, not even _you_, Elizabeth, is allowed to tell Sherlock about Ford's existence. Quite simply, I will ruin anyone who even attempts it."

There was an intake of breath on the other end of the conversation. "Mycroft, I don't think I have ever heard anything from you before that reminds me quite so much of Ford."

"I am surprised, Elizabeth, that you would need reminding just who taught me the trade."

He ended the call before she could respond, and dropped his phone back on the leather seat. He loathed having to make such a blatant threat. It lacked his usual finesse and subtlety. That he had been pushed into such crude measures was a sign of just how vulnerable he was feeling at the moment. With the evidence that could destroy both him and Sherlock sitting somewhere in Magnussen's care, he wondered for the hundredth time since his visit to Tbilisi just when and how it would be used against him.

He needed to find something that could be used to dissuade the Dane from listening to any request from Ford. Such a meeting would need to be very carefully planned.

Mycroft leaned forward to open the intercom to his driver on the other side of the soundproof privacy screen.

"Sir?"

"I've changed my mind. Take me to Parham."

He had some serious thinking to do.

oOo

Greg watched as Sherlock stood motionless in the centre of the room. They were at the Essex Chambers on Chancery Lane. Andrew Bairstow, the barrister who had called the crime in, was also looking at the consulting detective. After an initial almost frenzied ten minute circuit of the room looking for evidence and clues, Sherlock had ground to a halt with an expression on his face of both confusion and worry.

"You're _sure_ nothing else was taken?"

Bairstow was a Yorkshireman, built like a barrel, with freckles everywhere and a wiry thatch of red hair that he probably found difficult to cover with a wig when a court appearance required it.

"I'm sure. That file is always kept in the safe; it's been in my care for the past sixteen years, and I keep upgrading the safe regularly to keep it secure."

The safe in question was to the left of the desk, built into the wall and bolted to the floor. Unfortunately, the safe door was now gaping wide open.

Sherlock went back to it, to examine it again.

"It's a Planet Fire."

"Yes— he HS6052ef. Our practice takes security seriously."

"A dual locking mechanism."

Bairstow nodded. "Certified double key and a Vds Class II electronic combination lock. I change the PIN code every week."

Lestrade had been called by Sherlock to come unofficially. A burglary wasn't his division. Homicide and Serious Crimes had threshold limits, and a private law firm wasn't likely to reach it. But, because Sherlock had asked, he'd come. Now he had to ask the barrister the obvious question.

"Why didn't you report this to the Holborn Police station?

Bairstow sighed. "There was no sign of forced entry into the building. No breach of our security systems. This is a modern building, Detective Inspector. We all have codes and passes, and there is CCTV on the entrances, as well as 24 hour security on the premises. I found the safe door open like this when I came in this morning, and then looked to see what was missing. Given that it was Mister Holmes' file and only that file, I thought he'd want to be informed first. There's not a trace of anything untoward on any of our CCTV footage or security door data files."

Sherlock broke his silence. "What else is in the safe?"

"Papers. No valuables. Just files that my clients want to keep very confidential."

The DI glanced at Sherlock. "And it was only the one file that's missing?"

Bairstow nodded.

"What's in it?"

"None of your business." The consulting detective's answer was snapped.

Lestrade sniffed. "You're the one who asked me here, Sherlock. I can't help much if I don't know what's been stolen."

"I don't need that kind of help, Lestrade."

"Then why am I here? Do you want me to put in a word to the Holborn nick to see if they can expedite their investigation?"

"No. We both know that the Met only managed to solve 9% of all reported burglaries in London last year." Sherlock gestured at the safe. "Whoever did this won't have left any trace that could lead to a conviction."

The DI was not impressed. "No forensic evidence, and an owner who won't identify what the stolen property actually is. Well, it's unlikely that the police would even bother to register the theft, let alone investigate it. Do you have a suspect in mind? Who would want whatever it is that's in the file?"

"That is a good question, Lestrade. I don't know the answer."

Bairstow shrugged. "As per your instructions, Mister Holmes, the package has always remained sealed. I don't know what's in it any more than the Detective Inspector here."

Sherlock steepled his hands. "Before last night, apart from you, there were only four people in the world who knew that the papers even existed*, and I'm one of them. That leaves three others— my brother, John Watson and Doctor Esther Cohen."

Greg visibly blanched. "You don't suspect any of them, do you?"

"Not John. And not Doctor Cohen- both of them actually know what's in the file, because they've seen it. Only Mycroft hasn't, which makes him the prime suspect, don't you think?"

Greg now knew why he'd been asked to come— hen things deteriorated between the Holmes brothers to this sort of level, in the past he'd been willing to intermediate. Before he could say anything to that effect, there was a quiet tap at the door. Muffled by the thick wood, a woman's voice was heard. "Mister Bairstow?"

The barrister exchanged glances with the two other men. "My secretary."

When Sherlock nodded his assent, Bairstow opened the door.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but this was in your pigeon-hole, sir."

"Thank you, Miss Pettigrew." The red haired man took the package and shut the door.

"Let me see it." Sherlock's blue latex gloved fingers snatched the little parcel out of the barrister's hand before he'd even turned away from the door. It was a small narrow object, wrapped in turquoise tissue-paper. It was about the diameter but shorter than the length of a pen, and the package had a simple white bow.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade's warning growl made the younger man look up at him. "If you think that's been left by the thief, shouldn't it be investigated before you handle it?"

The Consulting Detective smirked. "Too small to be a bomb of any significance, Lestrade." He raised the package to his nose and drew a deep sniff in. "And no explosive or acid, if scent is anything to go by. Besides, if my brother wanted to do me in, he wouldn't have to resort to anything so dramatic. Not his style."

Nevertheless, he put the package down on the barrister's desk and reached for the brass letter opener on the blotter. He used that and the pen from his own pocket to pry the ribbon off and manipulate the tissue paper away from the plain cotton wool inside. Wielding his makeshift tools with surgical precision, he unrolled the cotton wool, to reveal a small item about two centimetres long and just over one in diameter, which had a turquoise string tied around it.

Lestrade and Bairstow had watched from the other side of the desk. The silver-haired DI spoke first. "What's that?"

Sherlock had picked up the small object and was using his pocket magnifier to examine it closely.

"Bone…more specifically, the proximal phalanx bone, possibly of the index or middle finger by size." He seemed to consider that for a moment before continuing, "…most likely from an index finger, given the position of the string."

The barrister interrupted, "why does that matter?"

"Tying a piece of string on the index finger is a memory technique— a reminder that something should be remembered when it is needed. It's only ever done on the index finger because it is the digit with the quickest connections to the part of the brain responsible for memory. The texture of the string on the finger continuously activates the nerves and keeps that part of the brain stimulated." Sherlock rattled this off as if on auto-pilot; his eyes were focused on the bone itself, which he was examining up close. Then he rolled the bone between his blue gloved fingers, testing the weight and feel of it. When he sniffed the bone, Sherlock looked puzzled.

Greg tried to catch his eye to ask the obvious question without having to actually say it.

Sherlock pursed his lips in contemplation. "It's old. Bone decays more slowly than most parts of a body because the calcium is resistant to the normal processes of decomposition; even after the organic materials have disappeared. But modern embalming processes change the chemical signatures of the skeleton—and their scent. If I were one to hazard a guess, then I would suggest that this bone is from a victim whose body was not embalmed. Yet, it's survived well. If it had been buried directly in soil then there would be evidence—bacteria and fungi in the earth attack collagen protein in the bones, meaning a skeleton buried in soil will crumble over three to five years. Calcium phosphate isn't attacked by micro-organisms, but the acids in soils will accelerate the process. Well aerated, peaty soils would have decomposed this completely."

The barrister looked confused. "So, it's a fossil?"

"No. fossils are not actually bones; they're what remains when minerals leach into bone and replace the organic material with inorganic; that's why you find dinosaur bones." He held up the bone to the light, so the two men could see it. "This bone has either been buried in a hot, dry climate where there are limited micro-organisms and no acids, or it's been preserved by freezing. I'll need to examine it; histiological differences will tell me which method of preservation- and it may just be possible to extract DNA, although the sample is rather small for that."

Greg nodded. "And what do you want me to do, if anything, in the meantime?" He was trying to remind Sherlock gently that if he wanted him to take on Mycroft he needed something more than a missing file whose contents he didn't know and an odd bone. Greg looked from the string around it back to Sherlock. "What do you think the thief wants you to remember?"

"Haven't a clue. But I know exactly where to start finding the answer— Mycroft. If there are consequences, I'll let you know."

oOo

"What do you mean, he isn't _available_? I need to talk to him."

She stifled a laugh at the rather petulant tone, but knew her amusement would still be detected. "He's left strict instructions not to be disturbed. And yes, Sherlock, that includes even you."

"Ketavan…"

Despite the fact that he should not be using that name, she found the baritone delivering it was seductively silky, almost caressing. He gave it the correct Georgian pronunciation, too. Perhaps because her job and her identity were something she could not share with anyone else, it gave her a guilty pleasure that Sherlock not only knew it but used it, too, in defiance of his brother's instructions. But, she allowed her tone to become icy. "There is no one hear by that name," as she started to reach for the button on her desk phone that would terminate the call. It was a risky game that Sherlock was playing.

As if he could see her action, Sherlock interjected, "Don't hang up. Anthea, or whatever name you prefer. Fancy a naughty weekend away? Shall I buy us both a plane ticket to Tbilisi?"

"No. He's not gone there."

"I'm not suggesting that he has."

Ketavan smirked; he was playing the innuendo very well. Sherlock's acting skills had enabled him to take apart Moriarty's network, so she no longer underestimated what he was capable of doing. She'd been keeping her distance since Sherlock had taken her hostage in his attempt to get to the bottom of what had happened in Tbilisi. Those thirty six hours locked in one of his bolt holes had taught her a great deal of respect for the man she had once dismissed as merely her mentor's little brother. Unlike his brother, Sherlock could and would play on his sexual appeal to get his way.

"Stop trying to manipulate me, Sherlock. I am immune to your charms."

She hoped that he would be able to deduce from her voice that she was drawing a line across which she would not go. Their phone conversations recently had become slightly dangerous exchanges, a sort of teasing flirtation on the edges of what was acceptable.

Sherlock confirmed these conclusions by continuing, "However, these days just buying a ticket for the two of us would rattle the bars of his cage enough to get him to return my call."

Sherlock's threat was just the sort of thing to get through to Mycroft, and she knew that he would be relying on her to be his first line of defence. "There's no point, Sherlock. I know as well as you do that if you try to leave the country, he will spot it, and action will be taken."

"Oooh, you're getting _good_ at threatening; almost as good as he is. Well, I suppose being around that kind of abuse of authority has a tendency to wear off on you. You can spare him from interruption just by telling me the truth. I know you know, so let's just cut to the chase." He'd lowered his baritone, and the effect was to make his voice even more seductive. It brought back the memory of his pinning her to the door of her flat, when he deduced the existence of the code book, the _Shahnama_.

"I can make no promises, but I will pass on the message that you want to talk to him."

There was a silence that somehow felt awkward to her.

"There's more, Keta, and it's important. Tell him my solicitor's office was broken into last night. A file was stolen, one that relates to …me."

He'd dropped the silky tone, and Ketavan heard the slight hesitation, wondering how to interpret it.

Then Sherlock continued, "I told Mycroft about this file three years ago; it's evidence regarding a decision taken by our parents. I specifically need to know if this theft was his idea, or whether this information is now in the hands of an unknown third party."

She thought that comment through, and decided to probe a bit deeper. "Do I take it that such a discovery would prove… difficult for either or both of you?"

"I don't know why it would be of interest to anyone other than the two of us. But, the fact that it alone was stolen out of all the contents in the man's office is…" He stopped, as if unsure what words to use, "…something he needs to know about, unless he was the perpetrator."

He hesitated again. "If so, if he did organise the theft, you tell him that I don't get the joke. The thief left a souvenir in the shape of a finger bone with a piece of turquoise string tied around it. So, if Mycroft wants me to remember something, he'd better tell me himself."

Knowing what she already knew about another turquoise string, Ketavan couldn't help but take an involuntary intake of breath at Sherlock's statement.

"I'll pass on the message, immediately," and then she hangs up before he can say anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * If you want to know what's in these files, and who knows about them, check out SideLined, Chapter 15.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krypton is classified as an inert gas, and it can be lethal. Inhaling excessive amounts can cause vomiting, nausea, dizziness, loss of consciousness, and even death.   
Death usually results from confusion and errors in judgment, as well as eventual loss of consciousness, preventing self-rescue. It can occur without warning and in seconds at low concentrations of oxygen. The first symptoms are air hunger and rapid respiration, impaired muscular coordination and diminished mental alertness, as well as emotional instability. Fatigue and collapse occurs quickly, followed by convulsions, coma, and ultimately death.

_Oh Sherlock, what have you done? _

As Mycroft hears on his mobile Forton's explanation of Sherlock's disappearance, he is standing on the street corner of Carlton House Terrace, right where the steps go down from the Duke of York's column down to The Mall. He has to stifle his urge to groan out loud in frustration. Going missing at this critical juncture of Mycroft's battle with Ford could not have been worse timing if the teenager had tried. Deduction tells him that it is too soon for Ford to have made a move since their conversation. This must be Sherlock's doing, rather than Ford's, and he must have been planning this escape since at least this morning. Mycroft curses his stupidity for blithely accepting his brother's suggestion that the Research Associates men could be stood down from what he'd dismissed as 'babysitting duties'.

"Sir? What do you want me to do?"

Forton's voice on the other end of the phone shocks Mycroft back into action, and anger propels him down the stone steps and to the edge of the pavement along The Mall.

"Leave Stimson to mind the fort and tell us when—and if—the idiot shows up of his own accord. In the meantime, we need to think the way an addict thinks when he's suddenly free to indulge."

_Where would he go?_

The pedestrian light is still red, and the solid stream of traffic in both directions is too dense for Mycroft to consider crossing without it. "Train stations," he barks into the phone. "They're the best bet if he's looking to score quickly, before we learned he was missing. From the barber's, he could have gone in one of two directions if he wanted the closest dealer—either Charing Cross or Victoria. Take your man and head to Charing Cross; sniff around, see if anyone's seen him. I'm going to walk from here to Victoria station, see if anyone has spotted him walking in this direction."

If Mycroft regrets the fact that he knows this much about the London drug scene, he can blame this on Sherlock, too. Last winter he'd spent months looking for the boy who was living rough. He'd learned a lot back then, enough to be able to spot likely candidates of dealers. He'd asked enough of them back then about a dark-haired boy, too tall for his age—big hands, big feet, all skin, bones and angles. The memory makes him curse that he is not carrying a photo; showing around an image of Sherlock had made things easier.

Forton is still talking on the phone, but traffic noise is making it hard to hear. Annoyed, Mycroft thumbs the volume control on the side of the Blackberry just in time to hear, "Yes, sir. Stephens and I are on our way. Is there any way for you to get access to the traffic cameras?"

"No." _Not without Ford finding out. _He's not going to alert the man to Sherlock being vulnerable; it would be just his luck that the wretched man would get to Sherlock first. Mycroft asks, "Have you got the tracer laptop with you?"

"Yes, sir. If he turns the phone on, we will be able to locate him."

"Keep in touch." Mycroft cuts the call and puts his phone in his trouser pocket. The hot afternoon sun ricochets off car windows and chrome, reflecting the glare into his eyes. Squinting at the red pedestrian light, he uses the delay to shed his suit jacket and loosen his tie, feeling the sweat trickling down his back. The concrete pavement, the tarmac of the road radiates a heat straight through the soles of his shoes. Anxiety and the weather conspire to make him perspire. Not even meeting Ford earlier had caused him this much stress.

The green man finally shows on the pedestrian signal and he bolts across the road. Sherlock is the only one these days who can make him break into a run. This one's short-lived; he soon skids to a momentary halt on the other side of the road. _Which way: through the park? Or on the pavement alongside the Mall? Which would Sherlock choose? Both of the routes are roughly the same distance. Or would Sherlock have opted for a taxi, to make things quicker?_

He stops, staring first at the traffic crawling along The Mall and then back to St James' Park, before deciding. _Not in this rush hour traffic_. Sherlock would be too impatient, and want to be in control rather than leaving it to a cab driver._ Walking on the pavement by the road?_

_No. _Mycroft decides. The heat is too oppressive and the fumes from the traffic would annoy that hypersensitive nose. Trees provide shade and cover, so Mycroft trots off down the path into the northeast corner of the park. When the path splits, Mycroft lets his instincts take over. The right-hand path is less crowded, so he takes it, knowing that his brother's aversion to people would lead him to the same choice. Sherlock would have had to cross the lake via the bridge in the middle, but there may well be some benches in that area which might be frequented by dealers.

When Mycroft reaches the bridge, he stops long enough to wipe the sweat out of his eyes and glance at the two benches on the north side of the lake. One has an elderly woman sitting with a younger woman—_grandmother with early stage Parkinson's, annoyed by the fact that her daughter-in-law is on the phone and ignoring both her and her child_. The other bench is in the open sunshine and empty; the heat is chasing people to find shade. Maybe he will be lucky; the heat might drive a lot of dealers away, staying cool indoors until the evening. Just seeing a dealer will be enough to trigger Sherlock's cravings. _Out of sight, out of mind_ had been Mycroft's logic for keeping the boy closely mewed up in the townhouse. Unfortunately, now that this bird has flown, Sherlock's in the wind and will swoop on whatever drugs he can find.

Mycroft has used the momentary halt to catch his breath; now he sets off again, jogging across the bridge. The two benches on the south side are occupied by people that he immediately dismisses as potential drug dealers. The one on the left has a couple kissing each other so ardently that Mycroft knows they would have been oblivious to anyone passing. No point in asking them if they'd seen a tall, thin teenager with dark hair wearing a light linen jacket and trousers that are too short for him.

The bench on the right is occupied by a rather large woman in an off-the-shoulder blouse who is sunbathing, eyes closed, face tilted to the west to catch the full rays of the sun. _Also unlikely to have noticed Sherlock passing by_. When he trots past the bench, he can actually smell the woman's suntan lotion—a rather medicinal aroma overlaying the hot flesh.

Or perhaps it is his own sweat he's smelling. While his eyes rake through the more crowded traffic of people for any tell-tale signs of what his brother would be looking for, Mycroft's mind is racing. _What if he disappears again? What if he's back on the drugs, the sleeping rough, the dangers? _Ford isn't the only enemy his brother has; his own recklessness had done just as much damage as the bastard half-brother had when he'd tried to have Sherlock killed in June.

As Mycroft dodges his way through the crowds, he can hear Ford's verdict still ringing in his ears—Sherlock will self-destruct on his own, without needing to be removed from the line of succession. Even if Mycroft finds him, will his brother ever be willing to stick to the straight and narrow path at university?

As the pedestrians become more numerous, Mycroft is forced to slow his pace to avoid running into people. When he is about a hundred meters from the exit nearest to Victoria Station, he spots a man sitting on a bench with an easel in front of him. There is a small crowd of pedestrians standing behind the bench, watching him paint with deft brush strokes. Mycroft joins them wondering if one of them might have noticed Sherlock. Before he can ask, he glances over to the painting—a scene of the flower strewn bank, a majestic willow tree at the lake side and the water beyond. Despite the steady stream of people who are walking between the artist and the lake, there is no sign of those people in the painting.

The people behind the bench are not talking to the elderly artist; there is something in the set of his shoulders and the concentration being shown that discourages anyone from breaking his focus.

Might _he_ have seen Sherlock passing this way? Would he have noticed? Mycroft makes a decision and goes around to sit down on the bench. It's large enough to accommodate at least a four people; being in direct sun, there are no takers apart from the artist who has obviously come prepared for the heat. A broad straw hat, somewhat worse for wear but showing signs of being as beloved as the man's palette and paint box, protects its wearer from the heat.

As he takes a seat, Mycroft studies the painting. The artist has a great eye for colour, and the work shows a considerable amount of fine detail. It gives Mycroft a way in.

"You notice things; an observant eye."

There is the briefest of nods, and a hum of acknowledgement.

"You're very good at _not_ letting the pedestrians get in the way," Mycroft continues.

Another hum.

"But I think you do see them. And I need to know if you've seen a teenager, a tall boy wearing a cream linen jacket, with navy trousers that are too short for him. He's got dark hair, a wavy, curly mess in all this humidity."

"Who wa' know?" The voice is rumbly, a distinct Jamaican patois evident. The painter dabs another bit of white paint, and another daisy takes its place on the bank.

"I'm his brother. He walked out of a barber's about forty minutes ago, probably angry at me for trying to make him get his hair cut."

That brings a wry smile to the dark face under the hat. "Got mi grandson like dat; no truck wit no scissors."

"You've seen him?" Mycroft holds his breath.

"Bwoy him sit down on bench here."

_Thank God._ At least he's on the right track.

"Mmmm, im dohn look so good, dis bro of yours."

"In what way?"

"Him holding his belly like he eaten sup'm bad. Den him gets up an goes tuh dat bin tuh chrow up." He uses the paintbrush to point to the rubbish bin. "Just like dat. Nobody stop, dey just walk around him. Him a come back here and sit, head dung fi him knees. Mi ask him eff him did ok. I tink that the first time im tink mi ere."

It takes Mycroft a moment to translate the Jamaican patois, before he asks, "How long ago? What happened?"

The artist shrugged and pointed his paint brush toward the park exit. "Half hour? Nuh a hour. Him get up an guh dat way." He shakes his head. "Bwoy him sick."

"Thank you." Mycroft is already in motion, his mind racing to a series of unfortunate conclusions. _Bad drugs?_ Could Sherlock already have made a purchase and is now paying the price? As soon as he's trotting through the crowds at the exit, he's dragging his blackberry out of his back trouser pocket. He hits redial on the last number and is gratified to hear Forton's voice on the second ring.

"Yes, sir?"

"He's been seen. I'm on Birdcage Walk, heading towards Victoria. It's possible he's already got some drugs and is having a reaction. He was seen being ill."

"Right; we'll turn around and head to Victoria Station."

"Do you have a photo of him? It might help if we can show it to the station staff."

"Yes, sir. Standard protocol."

Is there a chastisement in that comment? No, in Mycroft's business, carrying photos of family members is forbidden lest they become targets. That prohibition wouldn't apply to the private security detail he's hired to keep his brother safe. Mycroft ends the call, crossing the intersection with Spur Road, and heads southwards on Buckingham Palace Road. He estimates that he's about five hundred meters from the turn to the station. Of course, once he gets there, he may have to face the fact that if his brother has already used drugs, he may have gone to ground somewhere else to ride out the effects.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Half an hour later, Mycroft, Forton and Stephens have come up empty. No one they've spoken to in the station has seen the boy. Two youths loitering with intent at the side entrance were approached and offered money to look at the photo with no result. If Mycroft notices that the two beat a hasty retreat, well, he has other things on his mind than reporting someone for drug dealing.

He is beginning to get a very had feeling about things. If Sherlock had taken drugs that made him unwell, he could be anywhere now, suffering the consequences of an overdose or a bad reaction. Mycroft is only barely able to keep his cool, calm exterior intact and is wondering if he should risk asking the TfL security control room at the station to check if Sherlock's appeared on any cameras in the area. It would be a calculated risk; could he get to the boy and move him to safety before Ford found out?

"Sir!"

Mycroft turns at the shout to see Forton running across the station concourse towards him and he moves to meet him halfway. "What is it?"

Forton has his phone out. "Stephens says he's turned on the phone! We've got a fix!"

"_Where_?"

Forton puts his phone back to his ear, listening. "The bottom of Peabury Avenue, near the train tracks. It's not far—about a kilometre. Stephens is getting the car; he'll pick us up on Buckingham Palace Road."

While they wait for the black car to meet them at the side entrance of the station, Mycroft tries to contain his impatience. As soon as he's in the back seat, he takes out his own phone and calls the number for Sherlock's new Blackberry. The connection is opened quickly, but there is no familiar voice saying hello. Can he hear breathing in the background? Hard to tell, the street noise at his end makes it hard to be sure. He checks the screen—it says the call has been received. "Sherlock? Are you there? Are you alright?"

The connection is abruptly broken as the car moves through the rush hour traffic towards the junction with Ebury Bridge. Mycroft hits redial, but this time gets a recorded message, "The number you have dialled is not in operation. Please try again later."

Sherlock has not had time to set up a voice mail box, which is just as well, give the message that Mycroft would have left him. _What the hell are you playing at, brother mine? _

In the front seat, Forton is looking at the laptop screen. "We've lost the phone signal, sir. He's turned it off."

In a calm voice utterly at odds with his inner turmoil Mycroft asks, "Last known position?"

"A bit vague, sir, Somewhere at the southern end of Peabody Avenue. It's a housing estate; it could be one of several different buildings, all multi-occupancy."

"I am familiar with it." The Peabody estate had been built for Victorian railway workers originally, then converted into social housing for the borough's poorer residents. If only Sherlock had turned right instead of left as they were doing now. Mycroft's townhouse on South Eaton Place is less than two hundred meters in that direction, rather then the choice Sherlock had made.

Stephens turns left, crosses the train tracks and then turns right. "No cars allowed on Peabody Avenue; I'll go on Turpentine Lane and see if we can get access from the bottom."

When they arrive, the location is a construction site, gates locked for the night. The Peabody Estate is in the middle of a renovation project and behind the wooden hording Mycroft can see a number of derelict buildings. Stephens rattles the padlock on the metal gate. "We could contact the contractor."

Mycroft's patience finally snaps. "Break in."

Forton nods his head up and to the left—to a CCTV camera on the wall of the building alongside the locked gate.

"I'll take the consequences."

After a moment or two, Stephens steps clear of the lock, which is now in pieces. He shifts the metal gate just enough for the three of them to slip through.

In the rest of the estate, the flats are all modernised and occupied. In the construction zone, there are three buildings in a totally derelict state—windows boarded up, paint peeling mortar crumbling, the grime of centuries of diesel train fumes darkening the brickwork.

Some instinct tells Mycroft that if Sherlock has chosen one as a doss house to sleep off the drugs he's taken, it will be the one furthest from any of the occupied buildings."Three of us, three buildings. I'll take the one to the left."

He clambers over the rubble, past the diggers and pulls down two rotten boards that are across the doorway, his anger and frustration over the past two hours giving him a strength that he rarely has to use.

Inside of the building it's dark, but his nose tells him that there have been squatters here. The peculiarly offensive combination of urine, faeces and the fumes of drugs being cooked up is something that he's had to endure before when looking for Sherlock.

The ground floor rooms are full of rubbish, but empty of people, so he ascends a rickety staircase. On the hall landing, there are doorways to the right and the left. He can see the faint glow of candles to the right, so goes that way.

It's an all too familiar sight that greets him: various people, both male and female in different levels of stupor, drugged into barely seeing or caring that a stranger has just arrived. There is a fug of smoke from candles and cannabis that makes it hard to see clearly. He scans the occupants, looking for the one face that he needs to find.

_There!_ In the corner, a figure in the shadows slumped against the grimy wall is wearing a light linen jacket. Mycroft's initial jolt of recognition is immediately doused; even in the dim light thrown by the various candles stuck into bottles, he can see that the wearer of this jacket is not Sherlock. The man is older by at least a decade, most of which he must have been abusing drugs, if his battered visage is anything to go by; he looks to be sound asleep.

Though devoid of its true owner, the jacket is still the first tangible evidence that Sherlock is here. Mycroft strides across the room, stepping over two recumbent bodies, entwined in some sort of sexual congress that he ignores. Grabbing the jacket by the lapels, Mycroft lifts the man to his feet, shoves him against the wall and shakes the man hard. He is rewarded by a pair of bleary brown eyes slowly opening.

"Hey, man. Take it easy."

The response is slurred, in a way that Mycroft is distressed to know all too well. _Crack cocaine._ The jacket now reeks of the stuff, a potent stink of burning plastic and chemicals. "Where did you get this jacket? _Tell me! _It belongs to someone I need to find." Mycroft shakes the man again, making physical the threat carried in his tone of voice.

"Swapped it, he did. Wanted a clean needle."

_"Where is he?!"_

"Don't know; upstairs…I think he went to buy something," the man mutters. "I've used all of mine up," he complains, sounding irritated and confounded in equal measure.

Mycroft releases the fabric and the man slides down the wall into a heap, eyes closed. No matter what he'd paid this afternoon for this jacket, he never wants to see it again. He goes back through the fug in the room and takes a deep breath of the marginally less foul air before running up the next flight of stairs.

In the fourth room he enters, the one at the back of the flat, which might have been a tiny bedroom if the peeling garish wallpaper is to be believed, he finds Sherlock. The mattress he's lying on is filthy. A single candle stuck in a wine bottle gives him enough light to see that he's the only one in the room. For a good reason—even other drug addicts would want to get away from the stench of vomit that fills the room.

Mycroft bends down and lifts the candle to take a closer look at Sherlock's face. He's sweating profusely, red-faced and barely conscious. A finger against his carotid vein detects a heart beat that is elevated, but Mycroft takes some relief that it is not as fast as he might expect from an overdose of cocaine.

"Sherlock… what have you taken? I need to know. Where's the list?"

No reply. Sherlock is moaning, writhing on the filthy mattress, his arms hugging his stomach and then, as if that hurts him, releasing himself.

Mycroft digs out his blackberry, briefly thinks about calling 999 for an ambulance, but opts instead for a call to Forton. "I've found him. Third floor, on the right, back bedroom. Get up here as fast as you can to help me get him to the car; we can get him to St Thomas' faster than waiting for an ambulance."

While he waits for Forton, Mycroft sits down on the mattress. That's when he sees the scrape of paper in Sherlock's back trouser pocket. He fishes it out and holds it up to read it in the dim candle light—_morphine—_it says.

oOoOoOoOo

Seven hours later, Sherlock is moved from the recovery area into the general ward. It's past visiting hours, and most of the other patients are asleep in the darkened ward. Mycroft approaches the bed and clears his throat, hoping this will get the boy to open his eyes. When he is rewarded by a fluttering of eyelids and then a wider opening of those startlingly blue eyes, Mycroft heaves the first sigh of relief he's been able to make in hours.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock is still a bit dazed from the anaesthetic, but he mumbles, "What… happened?"

"Your appendix ruptured. According to the doctors, it must have been giving you pain for weeks." He repeats the question, "Why didn't you tell me you were in pain?"

"Thought it was IBS."

_Oh._ That is logical. And also a reason why the boy had been off his food a bit lately even worse than normal, and generally lacklustre. What Mycroft had put down as being an awkward teenager and fretting about starting at Cambridge had probably been Sherlock enduring significant pain without complaining, something that he's been doing ever since he'd been diagnosed with the on-again, off-again IBS condition when he was at Harrow. The flare-ups had been occasional rather than chronic, according to the school. Mycroft hasn't been around when they had happened. "So, why didn't you go home? Or ask Stimpson to take you there?"

"No diazepam left at home; used it up last week."

"You should have told me."

That seems to kick start Sherlock's brain. "Why? So you could interrogate me about it? Ask me why I was taking them? You think I'm a drug-addict. Even if you believed me, it would have taken hours. You'd have just sent me off to doctors. I'm fed up with them, all of them. Bloody useless." His eyelids sink to half-mast again, anger can only do so much against the pull of sleep.

"Doctors have just managed to save you from succumbing to septic shock, so a little gratitude might be in order."

Sherlock's eyes start to close.

Mycroft continues, trying to keep him awake. "Morphine… to relieve the pain?"

"Yes," the boy mumbles.

"And it wasn't enough…The doctors who did the tox screen said the dose you took would not have been strong enough to limit your pain, given your past levels of tolerance."

"It was all I could afford."

"When it didn't work, is that when you turned the phone on? I called you. Why didn't you stay on the line?"

Sherlock sighs, but doesn't open his eyes. "Tried, but as soon as I got it out, someone nicked it. Whoever it was, you must have scared him witless."

That too makes sense. Mycroft tuts. "Next time, Sherlock...just tell me. It would have saved us both a great deal of pain and worry."

"Shouldn't be another time; only have one appendix."

Mycroft smiles, relieved that Sherlock can snark about it. As he watches his brother slip back into slumber, Mycroft is still smiling. Maybe he's right. Maybe this time, it will be different. Maybe Sherlock will be able to deal with university on his own.

Still, no reason to let his relief blind him to reality. He's going to ensure that someone keeps a constant eye on him.


End file.
